Stf. 


2*£^t 


V 


til 


ADELAIDE    PROCTER. 


THE     POETICAL    WORKS 

OF 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER 


WITH     AN     INTRODUCTION 
BY     CHARLES     DICKENS 


REPRINTED     FROM 
THE     LATEST    LONDON     EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
A.     L.     BURT,      PUBLISHER 


AN   INTRODUCTION. 

BY   CHAKLES    DICKENS. 

IN  the  spring  of  the  year  1853,  I  observed,  as  con- 
ductor of  the  weekly  journal,  HOUSEHOLD  WOKDS, 
a  short  poem  among  the  proffered  contributions, 
very  different,  as  I  thought,  from  the  shoal  of  verses 
perpetually  setting  through  the  office  of  such  a 
periodical,  and  possessing  much  more  merit.  Its 
authoress  was  quite  unknown  to  me.  She  was  one 
Miss  MARY  BERWICK,  whom  I  had  never  heard  of; 
and  she  was  to  be  addressed  by  letter,  if  addressed 
at  all,  at  a  circulating  library  in  the  western  district 
of  London.  Through  this  channel,  Miss  Berwick 
was  informed  that  her  poem  was  accepted,  and  was 
invited  to  send  another.  She  complied,  and  became 
a  regular  and  frequent  contributor.  Many  letters 
passed  between  the  journal  and  Miss  Berwick,  but 
Miss  Berwick  herself  was  never  seen. 

How  we  came  gradually  to  establish,  at  the  office 
of  Household  Words,  that  we  knew  all  about  Miss 
Berwick,  I  have  never  discovered.  But,  we  settled 
somehow,  to  our  complete  satisfaction,  that  she  was 
governess  in  a  family ;  that  she  went  to  Italy  in  that 

capacity,  and  returned ;  and  that  she  had  long  been 

iii 


Iv  INTRODUCTION. 

in  the  same  family.  We  really  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  her,  except  that  she  was  remarkably  business- 
like, punctual,  self-reliant,  and  reliable:  so  I  sup- 
pose we  insensibly  invented  the  rest.  For  myself, 
my  mother  was  not  a  more  real  personage  to  me, 
than  Miss  Berwick  the  governess  became. 

This  went  on  until  December,  1854,  when  the 
Christmas  number,  entitled  The  Seven  Poor 
Travellers,  was  sent  to  press.  Happening  to  be  go- 
ing to  dine  that  day  with  an  old  and  dear  friend, 
distinguished  in  literature  as  BARRY  CORNWALL,  I 
took  with  me  an  early  proof  of  that  number,  and  re- 
marked, as  I  laid  it  on  the  drawing-room  table,  that 
it  contained  a  very  pretty  poem  written  by  a  certain 
Miss  Berwick.  Next  day  brought  me  the  disclosure 
that  I  had  so  spoken  of  the  poem  to  the  mother  of 
its  writer,  in  its  writer's  presence;  that  I  had  no 
such  correspondent  in  existence  as  Miss  Berwick  ; 
and  that  the  name  had  been  assumed  by  Barry  Corn- 
wall's eldest  daughter,  Miss  ADELAIDE  ANNE 
PROCTER. 

The  anecdote  I  have  here  noted  down,  besides 
serving  to  explain  why  the  parents  of  the  late  Miss 
Procter  have  looked  to  me  for  these  poor  words  of 
remembrance  of  their  lamented  child,  strikingly 
illustrates  the  honesty,  independence,  and  quiet 
dignity  of  the  lady's  character.  I  had  known  her 
when  she  was  very  young ;  I  had  been  honored  with 
her  father's  friendship  when  I  was  myself  a  young 
aspirant ;  and  she  had  said  at  home,  "  If  I  send  him, 
jn  my  own  name,  verses  that  he  does  not  honestly 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

like,  either  it  will  be  very  painful  for  him  to  return 
them,  or  he  will  print  them  for  papa's  sake, 
and  not  for  their  own.  So  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  my  chance  fairly  with  the  unknown 
volunteers." 

Perhaps  it  requires  an  editor's  experience  of  the 
profoundly  unreasonable  grounds  on  which  he  is 
often  urged  to  accept  unsuitable  articles — such  as 
having  been  to  school  with  the  writer's  husband's 
brother-in-law,  or  having  lent  an  alpenstock  in 
Switzerland  to  the  writer's  wife's  nephew,  when  that 
interesting  stranger  had  broken  his  own — fully  to 
appreciate  the  delicacy  and  the  self-respect  of  this 
resolution. 

Some  verses  by  Miss  Procter  had  been  published 
in  the  BOOK  or  BEAUTY,  ten  years  before  she  be- 
came Miss  Berwick.  With  the  exception  of  two 
poems  in  the  CORNHILL  MAGAZINE,  too  in  GOOD 
WORDS,  and  others  in  a  little  book  called  A  CHAP- 
LET  OF  VERSES  (issued  in  1862,  for  the  benefit  of  a 
Night  Refuge),  her  published  writings  first  appeared 
in  HOUSEHOLD  WORDS,  or  ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 
The  present  edition  contains  the  whole  of  her 
Legends  and  Lyrics,  and  originates  in  the  great 
favor  with  which  they  have  been  received  by  the 
public. 

Miss  Procter  was  born  in  Bedford  Square,  London, 
on  the  30th  of  October,  1825.  Her  love  of  poetry 
was  conspicuous  at  so  early  an  age,  that  I  have  be- 
fore me  a  tiny  album  made  of  small  note-paper,  into 
which  her  favorite  passages  were  copied  for  her  by 


yi  INTRODUCTION. 

her  mother's  hand  before  she  herself  could  write. 
It  looks  as  if  she  had  carried  it  about  as  another  little 
girl  might  have  carried  a  doll.  She  soon  displayed 
a  remarkable  memory,  and  great  quickness  of  appre- 
hension. When  she  was  quite  a  young  child,  she 
learnt  with  facility  several  of  the  problems  of  Euclid. 
As  she  grew  older,  she  acquired  the  French,  Italian, 
and  German  languages,  became  a  clever  piano-forte 
player,  and  showed  a  true  taste  and  sentiment  in 
drawing.  But,  as  soon  as  she  had  completely  van- 
quished the  difficulties  of  any  one  branch  of  study, 
it  was  her  way  to  lose  interest  in  it,  and  pass  to  an- 
other. While  her  mental  resources  were  being 
trained,  it  was  not  at  all  suspected  in  her  family  that 
she  had  any  gift  of  authorship,  or  any  ambition,  to 
become  a  writer.  Her  father  had  no  idea  of  her 
having  ever  attempted  to  turn  a  rhyme,  until  her 
first  little  poem  saw  the  light  in  print. 

When  she  attained  to  womanhood,  she  had  read  an 
extraordinary  number  of  books,  and  throughout  her 
life  she  was  always  adding  largely  to  the  number. 
In  1853  she  went  to  Turin  and  its  neighborhood,  on 
a  visit  to  her  aunt,  a  Roman  Catholic  lady.  As 
Miss  Procter  had  herself  professed  the  Roman 
Catholic  faith  two  years  before,  she  entered  with  the 
greater  ardor  on  the  study  of  the  Piedmontese  dia- 
lect, and  the  observation  of  the  habits  and  manners 
of  the  peasantry.  In  the  former,  she  soon  became  a 
proficient.  On  the  latter  head,  I  extract  from  her 
familiar  letters,  written  home  to  England  at  the 
time,  two  pleasant  pieces  of  description. 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

A  BETROTHAL. 

"  We  have  been  to  a  ball,  of  which  I  must  give 
you  a  description.  Last  Tuesday  we  had  just  done 
dinner  at  about  seven,  and  stepped  out  into  the 
balcony  to  look  at  the  remains  of  the  sunset  behind 
the  mountains,  when  we  heard,  very  distinctly,  a  band 
of  music,  which  rather  excited  my  astonishment,  as 
a  solitary  organ  is  the  utmost  that  toils  up  here.  I 
went  out  of  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  on  my 
returning,  Emily  said,  '  Oh  !  that  band  is  playing  at 
the  farmer's  near  here.  The  daughter  is  fiancee  to- 
day, and  they  have  a  ball.'  I  said, '  I  wish  I  was  go- 
ing ! '  '  Well,'  replied  she,  '  the  farmers  wife  did 
call  to  invite  us.'  '  Then  I  shall  certainly  go,'  I  ex- 
claimed. I  applied  to  Madame  B.,  who  said  she 
would  like  it  very  much,  and  we  had  better  go, 
children  and  all.  Some  of  the  servants  were  already 
gone.  We  rushed  away  to  put  on  some  shawls,  and 
put  off  any  shred  of  black  we  might  have  about  us 
(as  the  people  would  have  been  quite  annoyed  if  we 
had  appeared  on  such  an  occasion  with  any  black), 
and  we  started.  When  we  reached  the  farmer's, 
which  is  a  stone's  throw  above  our  house,  we  were 
received  with  great  enthusiasm  ;  the  only  drawback 
being  that  no  one  spoke  French,  and  we  did  not  yet 
speak  Piedmontese.  We  were  placed  on  a  bench 
against  the  wall,  and  the  people  went  on  dancing. 
The  room  was  a  large  whitewashed  kitchen  (I  sup- 
pose), with  several  large  pictures  in  black  frames, 
and  very  smoky.  I  distinguished  the  martyrdom  of 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

Saint  Sebastian,  and  the  others  appeared  equally 
lively  and  appropriate  subjects.  Whether  they  were 
old  masters  or  not,  and  if  so,  by  whom,  I  could  not 
ascertain.  The  band  were  seated  opposite  us.  Five 
men  with  wind-instruments,  part  of  the  band  of  the 
National  Guard,  to  which  the  farmer's  sons  belong. 
They  played  really  admirably,  and  I  began  to  be 
afraid  that  some  idea  of  our  dignity  wrould  prevent 
my  getting  a  partner  ;  so,  by  Madame  B.'s  advice,  I 
went  up  to  the  bride,  and  offered  to  dance  with  her. 
Such  a  handsome  young  woman  !  Like  one  of  Uwin's 
pictures.  Very  dark,  with  a  quantity  of  black  hair 
and  on  an  immense  scale.  The  children  were  already 
dancing,  as  well  as  the  maids.  After  we  came  to  an 
end  of  our  dance,  which  was  what  they  call  a  Polka- 
Mazourka,  I  saw  the  bride  trying  to  screw  up  the 
courage  of  her  fiance  to  ask  me  to  dance,  which  after 
a  little  hesitation  he  did.  And  admirably  he  danced, 
as  indeed  they  all  did — in  excellent  time,  and  with 
little  more  spirit  than  one  sees  in  a  ball-room.  In 
fact,  they  were  very  like  one's  ordinary  partners, 
except  that  they  wore  ear-rings  and  were  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  and  truth  compels  me  to  state  that  they 
decidedly  smelt  of  garlic.  Some  of  them  had  been 
smoking,  but  threw  away  their  cigars  when  we  came 
in.  The  only  thing  that  did  not  look  cheerful  was, 
that  the  room  was  only  lighted  by  two  or  three  oil- 
lamps,  and  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  preparation 
for  refreshments.  Madame  B.,  seeing  this,  whispered 
to  her  maid,  who  disengaged  herself  from  her  part- 
ner, and  ran  off  to.  the  house,  she  and  the  kitchen- 


INTRODUCTION.  jx 

maid  presently  returning  with  a  large  tray  covered 
with  all  kinds  of  cakes  (of  which  we  are  great  con- 
sumers and  always  have  a  stock),  and  a  large  hamper 
full  of  bottles  of  wine,  with  coffee  and  sugar.  This 
seemed  all  very  acceptable.  The  fiancee  was  re- 
quested to  distribute  the  eatables,  and  a  bucket  of 
water  being  produced  to  wash  the  glasses  in,  the 
wine  disappeared  very  quickly, — as  fast  as  they 
could  open  the  bottles.  But,  elated  I  suppose  by 
this,  the  floor  was  sprinkled  with  water,  and  the 
musicians  played  a  Monferrino,  which  is  a  Piedmont- 
ese  dance.  Madame  B.  danced  with  the  farmer's  son, 
and  Emily  with  another  distinguished  member  of  the 
company.  It  was  very  fatiguing, — something  like  a 
Scotch  reel.  My  partner  was  a  little  man,  like 
Perrot,  and  very  proud  of  his  dancing.  He  cut  in 
the  air  and  twisted  about,  until  I  was  out  of  breath, 
though  my  attempts  to  imitate  him  were  feeble  in 
the  extreme.  At  last,  after  seven  or  eight  dances,  I 
was  obliged  to  sit  down.  We  stayed  till  nine,  and  I 
was  so  dead  beat  with  the  heat  that  I  could  hardly 
crawl  about  the  house,  and  in  an  agony  with  the 
cramp,  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  danced." 

A  MARBIAGE. 

"  The  wedding  of  the  farmer's  daughter  has  taken 
place.  We  had  hoped  it  would  have  been  in  the 
little  chapel  of  our  house,  but  it  seems  some  special 
permission  was  necessary,  and  they  applied  for  it  too 
late.  They  all  said,  '  This  is  the  Constitution. 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

There  would  have  been  no  difficulty  before ! '  the 
lower  classes  making  the  poor  Constitution  the  scape- 
goat for  everything  they  don't  like.  So,  as  it  was 
impossible  for  us  to  climb  up  to  the  church  where 
the  wedding  was  to  be,  we  contented  ourselves  with 
seeing  the  procession  pass.  It  was  not  a  large  one, 
for,  it  requiring  some  activity  to  go  up,  all  the  old 
people  remained  at  home.  It  is  not  the  etiquette  for 
the  bride's  mother  to  go,  and  no  unmarried  woman 
can  go  to  a  wedding, — I  suppose  for  fear  of  its 
making  her  discontented  with  her  own  position. 
The  procession  stopped  at  our  door,  for  the  bride  to 
receive  our  congratulations.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
shot  silk,  and  a  yellow  handkerchief,  and  rows  of  a 
large  gold  chain.  In  the  afternoon  they  sent  to  re- 
quest us  to  go  there.  On  our  arrival  we  found  them 
dancing  out  of  doors,  and  a  most  melancholy  affair  it 
was.  All  the  bride's  sisters  were  not  to  be  recog- 
nized, they  had  cried  so.  The  mother  sat  in  the 
house,  and  could  not  appear.  And  the  bride  was 
sobbing  so  she  could  hardly  stand !  The  most  mel- 
ancholy spectacle  of  all  to  my  mind  was,  that  the 
bridegroom  was  decidedly  tipsy.  He  seemed  rather 
affronted  at  all  the  distress.  We  danced  a  Monfer- 
rino ;  I  with  the  bridegroom,  and  the  bride  crying 
the  whole  time.  The  company  did  their  utmost  to 
enliven  her  by  firing  pistols,  but  without  success,  and 
at  last  they  began  a  series  of  yells,  which  reminded 
me  of  a  set  of  savages.  But  even  this  delicate 
method  of  consolation  failed,  and  the  wishing  good- 
by  began.  It  was  altogether  so  melancholy  an  affair 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

that  Madame  B.  dropped  a  few  tears,  and  I  was  very 
near  it,  particularly  when  the  poor  mother  came  out 
to  see  the  last  of  her  daughter,  who  was  finally 
dragged  off  between  her  brother  and  uncle,  with  a 
last  explosion  of  pistols.  As  she  lives  quite  near, 
makes  an  excellent  match,  and  is  one  of  nine  chil- 
dren, it  really  was  a  most  desirable  marriage,  in  spite 
of  all  the  show  of  distress.  Albert  was  so  discomfited 
by  it,  that  he  forgot  to  kiss  the  bride  as  he  had  in- 
tended to  do,  and  therefore  went  to  call  upon  her 
yesterday,  and  found  her  very  smiling  in  her  new 
house,  and  supplied  the  omission.  The  cook  came 
home  from  the  wedding,  declaring  she  was  cured  of 
any  wish  to  marry;  but  I  would  not  recommend  any 
man  to  act  upon  that  threat  and  make  her  an  offer. 
In  a  couple  of  days  we  had  some  rolls  of  the  bride's 
first  baking,  which  they  call  Madonna's.  The  musi- 
cians, it  seems,  were  in  the  same  state  as  the  bride- 
groom, for,  in  escorting  her  home,  they  all  fell  down 
in  the  mud.  My  wrath  against  the  bridegroom  is 
somewhat  calmed  by  finding  that  it  is  considered  bad 
luck  if  he  does  not  get  tipsy  at  his  wedding." 

Those  readers  of  Miss  Procter's  poems  who  should 
suppose  from  their  tone  that  her  mind  was  of  a 
gloomy  or  despondent  cast  would  be  curiously  mis- 
taken. She  was  exceedingly  humorous,  and  had  a 
great  delight  in  humor.  Cheerfulness  was  habitual 
with  her,  she  was  very  ready  at  a  sally  or  a  reply, 
and  in  her  laugh  (as  I  remember  well)  there  was  an 
unusual  vivacity,  enjoyment,  and  sense  of  drollery. 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

She  was  perfectly  unconstrained  and  unaffected:  as 
modestly  silent  about  her  productions  as  she  was 
generous  with  their  pecuniary  results.  She  was  a 
friend  who  inspired  the  strongest  attachments ;  she 
was  a  finely  sympathetic  woman,  with  a  great  ac- 
cordant heart  and  a  sterling  noble  nature.  No  claim 
can  be  set  up  for  her,  thank  God,  to  the  possession 
of  any  of  the  conventional  poetical  qualities.  She 
never  by  any  means  held  the  opinion  that  she  was 
among  the  greatest  of  human  beings ;  she  never 
suspected  the  existence  of  a  conspiracy  on  the  part 
of  mankind  against  her  ;  she  never  recognized  in  her 
best  friends  her  worst  enemies ;  she  never  cultivated 
the  luxury  of  being  misunderstood  and  unappreciated; 
she  would  far  rather  have  died  without  seeing  a  line 
of  her  composition  in  print,  than  that  I  should  have 
maundered  about  her,  here,  as  "  the  Poet,"  or  the 
"  Poetess." 

"With  the  recollection  of  Miss  Procter  as  a  mere 
child  and  as  a  woman  fresh  upon  me,  it  is  natural 
that  I  should  linger  on  my  way  to  the  close  of  this 
brief  record,  avoiding  its  end.  But,  even  as  the  close 
came  upon  her,  so  must  it  come  here. 

Always  impelled  by  an  intense  conviction  that  her 
life  must  not  be  dreamed  away,  and  that  her  in- 
dulgence in  her  favorite  pursuits  must  be  balanced 
by  action  in  the  real  world  around  her,  she  was  in- 
defatigable in  her  endeavors  to  do  some  good. 
Naturally  enthusiastic,  and  conscientiously  impressed 
with  a  deep  sense  of  her  Christian  duty  to  her 
neighbor,  she  devoted  herself  to  a  variety  of  benev- 


INTRODUCTION.  xiij 

olent  objects.  Now,  it  was  the  visitation  of  the  sick 
that  had  possession  of  her ;  now,  it  was  the  shelter- 
ing of  the  houseless  ;  now,  it  was  the  elementary 
teaching  of  the  densely  ignorant ;  now,  it  was  the 
raising  up  of  those  who  had  wandered  and  got  trod- 
den under  foot ;  now,  it  was  the  wider  employment 
of  her  own  sex  in  the  general  business  of  life ;  now, 
it  was  all  these  tilings  at  once.  Perfectly  unselfish, 
swift  to  sympathize  and  eager  to  relieve,  she  wrought 
at  such  designs  with  a  flushed  earnestness  that  dis- 
regarded season,  weather,  time  of  day  or  night,  food, 
rfest.  Under  such  a  hurry  of  the  spirits,  and  such 
incessant  occupation,  the  strongest  constitution  will 
commonly  go  down.  Hers,  neither  of  the  strongest  nor 
the  weakest,  yielded  to  the  burden,  and  began  to  sink. 

To  have  saved  her  life,  then,  by  taking  action  on 
the  warning  that  shone  in  her  eyes  and  sounded  in 
her  voice,  would  have  been  impossible  without 
changing  her  nature.  As  long'  as  the  power  of 
moving  about  in  the  old  way  was  left  to  her,  she 
must  exercise  it,  or  be  killed  b^y  the  restraint.  And 
so  the  time  came  when  she  could  move  about  no 
longer,  and  took  to  her  bed. 

All  the  restlessness  gone  then,  and  all  the  sweet 
patience  of  her  natural  disposition  purified  by  the 
resignation  of  her  soul,  she  lay  upon  her  bed  through 
the  whole  round  of  changes  of  the  seasons.  She  lay 
upon  her  bed  through  fifteen  months.  In  all  that 
time,  her  old  cheerfulness  never  quitted  her.  In  all 
that  time,  not  an  impatient  or  a  querulous  minute 
can  be  remembered. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

At  length,  at  midnight  on  the  2d  of  February, 
1864,  she  turned  down  a  leaf  of  a  little  book  she  was 
reading,  and  shut  it  up. 

The  ministering  hand  that  had  copied  the  verses 
into  the  tiny  album  was  soon  around  her  neck,  and 
she  quietly  asked,  as  the  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of 
one  :  "  Do  you  think  I  am  dying,  mamma  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very,  very  ill  to-night,  my  dear." 

"  Send  for  my  sister.  My  feet  are  so  cold.  Lift 
me  up." 

Her  sister  entering  as  they  raised  her,  she  said : 
"  It  has  come  at  last !  "  And  with  a  bright  and 
happy  smile,  looked  upward  and  departed. 

'*  Well  had  she  written : — 

Why  shouldst  thou  fear  the  beautiful  angel,  Death, 
Who  waits  thee  at  the  portals  of  the  skies, 

Ready  to  kiss  away  thy  struggling  breath, 
Ready  with  gentle  hands  to  close  thine  eyes  ? 

Oh,  what  were  life,  if  life  were  all  ?    Thine  eyes 
Are  blinded  by  their  tears,  or  thou  wouldst  see 

Thy  treasures  wait  thee  in  the  far-off  skies, 
And  Death,  thy  friend,  will  give  them  all  to  thee. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Introduction iii 

LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS.     A  BOOK  OF  VERSES. 
FIRST  SERIES. 

The  Angel's  Story 1 

Echoes 8 

A  False  Genius 9 

My  Picture 11 

Judge  Not 12 

Friend  Sorrow 13 

One  by  One 14 

True  Honors 16 

A  Woman's  Question 25 

The  Three  Rulers 27 

A  Dead  Past 28 

A  Doubting  Heart 29 

A  Student 30 

A  Knight-Errant 32 

Linger,  O  Gentle  Time 34 

Homeward  Bound 34 

Life  and  Death 43 

Now 44 

Cleansing  Fires 45 

The  Voice  of  the  Wind 46 

Treasures 48 

Shining  Stars 50 

Waiting 51 

The  Cradle  Song  of  the  Poor 53 

Be  Strong 55 

God's  Gifts 55 

A  Tomb  in  Ghent 58 

The  Angel  of  Death 68 

XV 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Dream 69 

The  Present 70 

Changes 71 

Strive,  Wait,  and  Pray 72 

A  Lament  for  the  Summer 73 

The  Unknown  Grave 74 

Give  me  thy  Heart 75 

The  Wayside  Inn 78 

Voices  of  the  Past 85 

The  Dark  Side 86 

A  First  Sorrow 88 

Murmurs 89 

Give 91 

My  Journal 92 

A  Chain 95 

The  Pilgrims. 97 

Incompleteness 98 

A  Legend  of  Bregenz 99 

A  Farewell 106 

Sowing  and  Reaping 107 

The  Storm 108 

Words 109 

A  Love  Token Ill 

A  Tryst  with  Death 112 

Fidelis 113 

A  Shadow 115 

The  Sailor  Boy 116 

A  Crown  of  Sorrow 130 

The  Lesson  of  the  War 131 

The  Two  Spirits 133 

A  Little  Longer 137 

Grief 139 

The  Triumph  of  Time 143 

A  Parting 144 

The  Golden  Gate 146 

Phantoms 147 

Thankfulness 149 

Home-Sickness 150 

Wishes...  152 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

PAGE 

The  Peace  of  God 154 

Life  in  Death  and  Death  in  Life 155 

Recollections 159 

Illusion 161 

A  Vision 163 

Pictures  in  the  Fire 165 

The  Settlers 167 

Hush ! 169 

Hours.. 170 

The  Two  Interpreters 172 

Comfort 175 

Home  at  Last  176 

Unexpressed 178 

Because 179 

Rest  at  Evening 180 

A  Retrospect 182 

True  or  False 184 

Golden  Words 187 

LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS.    A  BOOK  OF  VERSES. 
SECOND  SERIES. 

A  Legend  of  Provence 193 

Envy 204 

Over  the  Mountain 205 

Beyond 207 

A  Warning 209 

Maximus 211 

Optimus 212 

A  Lost  Chord 214 

Too  Late. . . "''. 215 

The  Requital 217 

Returned—"  Missing  " 220 

In  the  Wood 222 

Two  Worlds 223 

A  New  Mother 225 

Give  Place 235 

My  Will 236 

King  and  Slave 239 

A  Chant 240 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Dream-Life 242 

Rest 243 

The  Tyrant  and  the  Captive 245 

The  Carver's  Lesson 248 

Three  Roses 249 

My  Picture  Gallery 250 

Sent  to  Heaven 253 

Never  Again 255 

Listening  Angels 257 

Golden  Days 259 

Philip  and  Mildred 260 

Borrowed  Thoughts 

I.  From  "  Lavater "  274 

II.  From  "Phantastes" 274 

III.  From  "  Lost  Alice  " 275 

IV.  From  ***.... 276 

Light  and  Shade 277 

A  Changeling 280 

Discouraged 282 

If  Thou  couldst  know 285 

The  Warrior  to  his  Dead  Bride 286 

A  Letter 287 

A  Comforter 289 

Unseen 293 

A  Remembrance  of  Autumn 294 

Three  Evenings  in  a  Life 295 

The  Wind 311 

Expectation 312 

An  Ideal 313 

Our  Dead 315 

A  Woman's  Answer 317 

The  Story  of  the  Faithful  Soul 319 

AContrast 322 

The  Bride's  Dream 325 

The  Angel's  Bidding 327 

Spring 329 

Evening  Hymn 332 

The  Inner  Chamber 833 

Hearts..  .  334 


CONTENTS.  xix 

PAGE 

Two  Loves 337 

A  Woman's  Last  Word 338 

Past  and  Present 340 

For  the  Future , 341 

A  CHAPLET  OF  VERSES. 

Introduction 347 

The  Army  of  the  Lord. . .   353 

The  Star  of  the  Sea 358 

The  Saered  Heart 359 

The  Names  of  Our  Lady 363 

A  Chaplet  of  Flowers 365 

Kyrie  Eleison 369 

The  Annunciation 370 

An  Appeal 372 

The  Jubilee  of  1850 376 

Christmas  Flowers , 378 

A  Desire 380 

Our  Daily  Bread 383 

Threefold 384 

Confido  et  Conquiesco 386 

Ora  pro  Me 387 

The  Church  in  1849 388 

Fishers  of  Men 388 

The  Old  Year's  Blessing 390 

Evening  Chant 392 

A  Christmas  Carol 393 

Our  Titles. 395 

Ministering  Angels 397 

The  Shrines  of  Mary 398 

The  Homeless  Poor 405 

Milly 's  Expiation 411 

A  Castle  in  the  Air 427 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem 428 

A  Legend 429 

Birthday  Gifts 431 

A  Beggar 436 

Links  with  Heaven 438 

Homeless..  439 


DEDICATED. 


MATILDA  M.   HAYS. 

"  Our  tokens  of  love  are  for  the  most  part  barbarous.  Cold  and  lifeless 
because  they  do  not  represent  our  life.  The  only  gift  is  a  portion  of  thy- 
self. Therefore  let  the  farmer  give  his  corn  ;  the  miner,  a  gem  ;  the  sailor, 
coral  and  shells  ;  the  painter  his  picture ;  and  the  poet,  his  poems." — 
EMERSON'S  Essays. 

A.  A.  P. 

May,  1858. 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSES. 


FIRST  SERIES, 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 


THE   ANGEL'S  STORY. 

THKOUGH  the  blue  and  frosty  heavens 
Christmas  stars  were  shining  bright  ; 

Glistening  lamps  throughout  the  City 
Almost  matched  their  gleaming  light ; 

While  the  winter  snow  was  lying, 

And  the  winter  winds  were  sighing, 
Long  ago,  one  Christmas  night. 

While,  from  every  tower  and  steeple, 
Pealing  bells  were  sounding  clear, 

(Never  with  such  tones  of  gladness, 
Save  when  Christmas  time  is  near,) 

Many  a  one  that  night  was  merry 
Who  had  toiled  through  all  the  year. 

That  night  saw  old  wrongs  forgiven, 
Friends,  long  parted,  reconciled  ; 

Voices  all  unused  to  laughter, 
Mournful  eyes  that  rarely  smiled, 

Trembling  hearts  that  feared  the  morrow, 

,     From  their  anxious  thoughts  beguiled. 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

Rich  and  poor  felt  love  and  blessing 
From  the  gracious  season  fall  ; 

Joy  and  plenty  in  the  cottage, 
Peace  and  feasting  in  the  hall ; 

And  the  voices  of  the  children 
Ringing  clear  above  it  all ! 

Yet  one  house  was  dim  and  darkened  ; 

Gloom,  and  sickness,  and  despair, 
Dwelling  in  the  gilded  chambers, 

Creeping  up  the  marble  stair, 
Even  stilled  the  voice  of  mourning, — 

For  a  child  lay  dying  there. 

Silken  curtains  fell  around  him, 
Velvet  carpets  hushed  the  tread, 

Many  costly  toys  were  lying, 
All  unheeded,  by  his  bed  ; 

And  his  tangled  golden  ringlets 
Were  on  downy  pillows  spread. 

The  skill  of  that  mighty  City 

To  save  one  little  life  was  vain, — 

One  little  thread  from  being  broken, 

One  fatal  word  from  being  spoken  ; 
Nay,  his  very  mother's  pain, 

And  the  mighty  love  within  her, 
Could  not  give  him  health  again. 

So  she  knelt  there  still  beside  him, 
She  alone  with  strength  to  smile, 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

Promising  that  he  should  suffer 

No  more  in  a  little  while, 
Murmuring  tender  song  and  story 

Weary  hours  to  beguile. 

Suddenly  an  unseen  Presence 

Checked  those  constant  moaning  cries, 
Stilled  the  little  heart's  quick  fluttering, 

Raised  those  blue  and  wondering  eyes, 
Fixed  on  some  mysterious  vision, 

With  a  startled  sweet  surprise. 

For  a  radiant  angel  hovered, 

Smiling,  o'er  the  little  bed  ; 
White  his  raiment,  from  his  shoulders 

Snowy  dove-like  pinions  spread, 
And  a  starlike  light  was  shining 

In  a  Glory  round  his  head. 

While,  with  tender  love,  the  angel, 

Leaning  o'er  the  little  nest, 
In  his  arms  the  sick  child  folding, 

Laid  him  gently  on  his  breast, 
Sobs  and  wailings  told  the  mother 

That  her  darling  was  at  rest. 

So  the  angel,  slowly  rising, 

Spread  his  wings,  and  through  the  air 
Bore  the  child,  and,  while  he  held  him 

To  his  heart  with  loving  care, 
Placed  a  branch  of  crimson  roses 

Tenderly  beside  him  there. 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

While  the  child,  thus  clinging,  floated 
Towards  the  mansions  of  the  Blest, 

Gazing  from  his  shining  guardian 
To  the  flowers  upon  his  breast, 

Thus  the  angel  spake,  still  smiling 
On  the  little  heavenly  guest  : 

"  Know,  dear  little  one,  that  Heaven 
Does  no  earthly  thing  disdain, 

Man's  poor  joys  find  there  an  echo 
Just  as  surely  as  his  pain  ; 

Love,  on  earth  so  feebly  striving, 
Lives  divine  in  Heaven  again ! 

"  Once  in  that  great  town  below  us, 
In  a  poor  and  narrow  street, 

Dwelt  a  little  sickly  orphan  : 
Gentle  aid,  or  pity  sweet, 

Never  in  life's  rugged  pathway 
Guided  his  poor  tottering  feet. 

"  All  the  striving    anxious  forethought 
That  should  only  come  with  age 

Weighed  upon  his  baby  spirit, 

Showed  him  soon  life's  sternest  page  ; 

Grim  Want  was  his  nurse,  and  Sorrow 
Was  his  only  heritage. 

"  All  too  weak  for  childish  pastimes, 

Drearily  the  hours  sped  ; 
On  his  hands  so  small  and  trembling 
r     Leaning  his  poor  aching  head, 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

Or,  through  dark  and  painful  hours, 
Lying  sleepless  on  his  bed. 

"  Dreaming  strange  and  longing  fancies 

Of  cool  forests  far  away  ; 
And  of  rosy,  happy  children, 

Laughing  merrily  at  play, 
Coming  home  through  green  lanes,  bearing 

Trailing  boughs  of  blooming  May. 

"  Scarce  a  glimpse  of  azure  heaven 
Gleamed  above  that  narrow  street, 

And  the  sultry  air  of  summer 

(That  you  call  so  warm  and  sweet) 

Fevered  the  poor  orphan,  dwelling 
In  the  crowded  alley's  heat. 

"  One  bright  day,  with  feeble  footsteps 
Slowly  forth  he  tried  to  crawl, 

Through  the  crowded  city's  pathways 
Till  he  reached  a  garden-wall, 

Where  'mid  princely  halls  and  mansions 
Stood  the  lordliest  of  all. 

"  There  were  trees  with  giant  branches, 
Velvet  glades  where  shadows  hide ; 

There  were  sparkling  fountains  glancing, 
Flowers,  which  in  luxuriant  pride 

Even  wafted  breaths  of  perfume 
To  the  child  who  stood  outside. 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

"  He  against  the  gate  of  iron 

Pressed  his  wan  and  wistful  face, 

Gazing  witli  an  awe-struck  pleasure 
At  the  glories  of  the  place ; 

Never  had  his  brightest  day-dream 
Shone  with  half  such  wondrous  grace. 

"  You  were  playing  in  that  garden, 

Throwing  blossoms  in  the  air, 
Laughing  when  the  petals  floated 

Downwards  on  your  golden  hair; 
And  the  fond  eyes  watching  o'er  you, 
And  the  splendor  spread  before  you, 

Told  a  House's  Hope  was  there. 

"  When  your  servants,  tired  of  seeing 

Such  a  face  of  want  and  woe, 
Turning  to  the  ragged  orphan, 

~Gave  him  coin,  and  bade  him  go, 
Down  his  cheeks  so  thin  and  wasted 

Bitter  tears  began  to  flow. 

"  But  that  look  of  childish  sorrow 
On  your  tender  child-heart  fell, 

And  you  plucked  the  reddest  roses 
From  the  tree  you  loved  so  well, 

Passed  them  through  the  stern  cold  grating, 
Gently  bidding  him  '  Farewell ! ' 

"  Dazzled  by  the  fragrant  treasure 
And  the  gentle  voice  he  heard, 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 

In  the  poor  forlorn  boy's  spirit, 
Joy,  the  sleeping  Seraph,  stirred ; 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  flowers, 
In  his  heart  the  loving  word. 

"  So  he  crept  to  his  poor  garret ; 

Poor  no  more,  but  rich  and  bright, 
For  the  holy  dreams  of  childhood — 

Love,  and  Rest,  and  Hope,  and  Light — 
Floated  round  the  orphan's  pillow 

Through  the  starry  summer  night. 

"  Day  dawned,  yet  the  visions  lasted ; 

All  too  weak  to  rise  he  lay ; 
Did  he  dream  that  none  spake  harshly, — 

All  were  strangely  kind  that  day  ? 
Surely  then  his  treasured  roses 

Must  have  charmed  all  ills  away. 

"And  he  smiled,  though  they  were  fading; 

One  by  one  their  leaves  were  shed ; 
'  Such  bright  things  could  never  perish, 

They  would  bloom  again,'  he  said. 
When  the  next  day's  sun  had  risen 

Child  and  flowers  both  were  dead. 

"  Know,  dear  little  one  I  our  Father 

Will  no  gentle  deed  disdain  ; 
Love  on  the  cold  earth  beginning 

Lives  divine  in  Heaven  again, 
While  the  angel  hearts  that  beat 

Still  all  tender  thoughts  retain." 


ECHOES. 

So  the  angel  ceased,  and  gently 
O'er  his  little  burden  leant; 

While  the  child  gazed  from  the  shining, 
Loving  eyes  that  o'er  him  bent, 

To  the  blooming  roses  by  him, 

Wondering  what  that  mystery  meant. 

Thus  the  radiant  angel  answered, 
And  with  tender  meaning  smiled : 

"  Ere  your  childlike,  loving  spirit, 
Sin  and  the  hard  world  defiled, 

God  has  given  me  leave  to  seek  you, — 
I  was  once  that  little  child !  " 


In  the  churchyard  of  that  city 
Rose  a  tomb  of  marble  rare, 

Decked,  as  soon  as  Spring  awakened, 
With  her  buds  and  blossoms  fair, — 

And  a  humble  grave  beside  it, — 
No  one  knew  who  rested  there. 


ECHOES. 

STILL  the  angel  stars  are  shining, 
Still  the  rippling  waters  flow, 

But  the  angel-voice  is  silent 
That  I  heard  so  long  ago. 

Hark  !  the  echoes  murmur  low, 
Long  ago ! 


A  FALSE  GENIUS. 

Still  the  wood  is  dim  and  lonely, 
Still  the  plashing  fountains  play, 

But  the  past  and  all  its  beauty, 
Whither  has  it  fled  away  ? 
Hark !  the  mournful  echoes  say, 
Fled  away ! 

Still  the  bird  of  night  complaineth, 
(Now,  indeed,  her  song  is  plain.) 

Visions  of  my  happy  hours, 
Do  I  call  and  call  in  vain  ? 
Hark !  the  echoes  cry  again, 
All  in  vain  ! 

Cease,  O  echoes,  mournful  echoes  ! 

Once  I  loved  your  voices  well ; 
Now  my  heart  is  sick  and  weary — 

Days  of  old,  a  long  farewell  ! 

Hark !  the  echoes  sad  and  dreary 
Cry  farewell,  farewell ! 


A  FALSE  GENIUS. 

I  SEE  a  Spirit  by  thy  side, 
Purple-winged  and  eagle-eyed, 
Looking  like  a  heavenly  guide. 

Though  he  seem  so  bright  and  fair, 
Ere  thou  trust  his  proffered  care, 
Pause  a  little,  and  beware  ! 


10  A  FALSE  GENIUS. 

If  he  bid  thee  dwell  apart, 
Tending  some  ideal  smart 
In  a  sick  and  coward  heart ; 

In  self-worship  wrapped  alone, 
Dreaming  thy  poor  griefs  are  grown 
More  than  other  men  have  known  ; 

Dwelling  in  some  cloudy  sphere, 
Though  God's  work  is  waiting  here, 
And  God  deigneth  to  be  near ; 

If  his  torch's  crimson  glare 
Show  the  evil  everywhere, 
Tainting  all  the  wholesome  air; 

While  with  strange  distorted  choice, 
Still  disdaining  to  rejoice, 
Thou  wilt  hear  a  wailing  voice  ; 

If  a  simple,  humble  heart 
Seem  to  thee  a  meaner  part 
Than  thy  noblest  aim  and  art ; 

If  he  bid  thee  bow  before 
Crowned  Mind  and  nothing  more, 
The  great  idol  men  adore ; 

And  with  starry  veil  enfold 

Sin,  the  trailing  serpent  old, 

Till  his  scales  shine  out  like  gold ; 

Though  his  words  seem  true  and  wise, 
Soul,  I  say  to  thee,  Arise, 
He  is  a  Demon  in  disguise ! 


MY  PICTURE. 


MY  PICTURE. 

STAND  this  way — more  near  the  window- 
By  my  desk — you  see  the  light 

Falling  on  my  picture  better — 
Thus  I  see  it  while  I  write ! 

Who  the  head  may  be  I  know  not, 

But  it  has  a  student  air ; 
With  a  look  half  sad,  half  stately, 

Grave  sweet  eyes  and  flowing  hair. 

Little  care  I  who  the  painter, 
How  obscure  a  name  he  bore  ; 

Nor,  when  some  have  named  Velasquez, 
Did  I  value  it  the  more. 

As  it  is,  I  would  not  give  it 

For  the  rarest  piece  of  art ; 
It  has  dwelt  with  me,  and  listened 

To  the  secrets  of  my  heart. 

Many  a  time,  when  to  my  garret, 

Weary,  I  returned  at  night, 
It  has  seemed  to  look  a  welcome 

That  has  made  my  poor  room  bright. 

Many  a  time,  when  ill  and  sleepless, 
I  have  watched  the  quivering  gleam 

Of  my  lamp  upon  that  picture, 
Till  it  faded  in  my  dream. 


11 


12  JUDGE  NOT. 

When  dark  days  have  come,  and  friendship 
Worthless  seemed,  and  life  in  vain, 

That  bright  friendly  smile  has  sent  me 
Boldly  to  my  task  again. 

Sometimes  when  hard  need  has  pressed  me 
To  bow  down  where  I  despise, 

I  have  read  stern  words  of  counsel 
In  those  sad,  reproachful  eyes. 

Nothing  that  my  brain  imagined, 
Or  my  weary  hand  has  wrought, 

But  it  watched  the  dim  Idea 

Spring  forth  into  armed  Thought. 

It  has  smiled  on  my  successes, 

Eaised  me  when  my  hopes  were  low, 

And  by  turns  has  looked  upon  me 
With  all  the  loving  eyes  I  know. 

Do  you  wonder  that  my  picture 
Has  become  so  like  a  friend  ? — 

It  has  seen  my  life's  beginnings, 
It  shall  stay  and  cheer  the  end ! 


JUDGE   NOT. 

JUDGE  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain 
And  of  his  heart  thou  canst  not  see  ; 

What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain, 
In  God's  pure  light  may  only  be 

A  scar,  brought  from  some  well-won  field, 

Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and  yield. 


FRIEND  SORROW.  13 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy  sight, 

May  be  a  token,  that  below 
The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly  fight 

With  some  infernal  fiery  foe, 
Whose  glance  would  scorch  thy  smiling  grace, 
And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy  face  ! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise — 

Maybe  the  angel's  slackened  hand 
Has  suffered  it,  that  he  may  rise 

And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand ; 
Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things, 
May  henceforth  learn  to  use  his  wings. 

And  judge  none  lost ;  but  wait  and  see, 

With  hopeful  pity,  not  disdain  ; 
The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 

The  measure  of  the  height  of  pain 
And  love  and  glory  that  may  raise 
This  soul  to  God  in  after  days  ! 


FRIEND  SORROW. 

Do  not  cheat  thy  Heart  and  tell  her 

"  Grief  will  pass  away, 
Hope  for  fairer  times  in  future, 

And  forget  to-day."- 
Tell  her  if  you  will,  that  sorrow 

Need  not  come  in  vain ; 
Tell  her  that  the  lesson  taught  her 

Far  outweighs  the  pain. 


14  ONE  BY  ONE. 

Cheat  her  not  with  the  old  comfort, 

"  Soon  she  will  forget," — 
Bitter  truth,  alas  !  but  matter 

Rather  for  regret ; 
Bid  her  not  "  Seek  other  pleasures, 

Turn  to  other  things  ;  " — 
Rather  nurse  her  cag^d  sorrow 

Till  the  captive  sings. 

Rather  bid  her  go  forth  bravely, 

And  the  stranger  greet ; 
Not  as  foe,  with  spear  and  buckler, 

But  as  dear  friends  meet ; 
Bid  her  with  a  strong  clasp  hold  her, 

By  her  dusky  wings, 
Listening  for  the  murmured  blessing 

Sorrow  always  brings. 


ONE  BY  ONE. 

ONE  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 
One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 

Some  are  coming,  some  are  going ; 
Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each, 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 

Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 


ONE  BY  ONE. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  Heaven) 
Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below ; 

Take  them  readily  when  given, 
Ready  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee, 
Do  not  fear  an  arme"d  band  ; 

One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee ; 
Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow  ; 

See  how  small  each  moment's  pain, 
God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 

So  each  day  begin  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 

Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear ; 
Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy, 

When  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting, 
Or  for  passing  hours  despond ; 

Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 
Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token, 
Reaching  heaven  ;  but  one  by  one 

Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 


16  TRUE  HONORS. 


TRUE  HONORS. 

Is  my  darling  tired  already, 

Tired  of  her  day  of  play  ? 
Draw  your  little  stool  beside  me, 

Smooth  this  tangled  hair  away. 
Can  she  put  the  logs  together, 

Till  they  make  a  cheerful  blaze  ? 
Shall  her  blind  old  Uncle  tell  her 

Something  of  his  youthful  days? 

Hark !     The  wind  among  the  cedars 

Waves  their  white  arms  to  and  fro ; 
I  remember  how  I  watched  them 

Sixty  Christmas  Days  ago  : 
Then  I  dreamt  a  glorious  vision 

Of  great  deeds  to  crown  each  year ; 
Sixty  Christmas  Days  have  found  me 

Useless,  helpless,  blind — and  here ! 

Yes,  I  feel  my  darling  stealing 

Warm  soft  fingers  into  mine  : 
Shall  I  tell  her  what  I  fancied 

In  that  strange  old  dream  of  mine  ? 
I  was  kneeling  by  the  window, 

Reading  how  a  noble  band, 
With  the  red  cross  on  their  breastplates 

Went  to  gain  the  Holy  Land. 


TRUE  HONORS.  17 

While  with  eager  eyes  of  wonder 

Over  the  dark  page  I  bent, 
Slowly  twilight  shadows  gathered 

Till  the  letters  came  and  went ; 
Slowly,  till  the  night  was  round  me ; 

Then  my  heart  beat  loud  and  fast, 
For  I  felt  before  I  saw  it 

That  a  spirit  near  me  passed. 

Then  I  raised  my  eyes,  and,  shining 

Where  the  moon's  first  ray  was  bright, 
Stood  a  winged  Angel-warrior 

Clothed  and  panoplied  in  light : 
So,  with  Heaven's  love  upon  him, 

Stern  in  calm  and  resolute  will, 
Looked  St.  Michael, — does  the  picture 

Hang  in  the  old  cloister  still  ? 

Threefold  were  the  dreams  of  honor 
That  absorbed  my  heart  and  brain  ; 

Threefold  crowns  the  Angel  promised, 
Each  one  to  be  bought  by  pain  : 

While  he  spoke  a  threefold  blessing 
Fell  upon  my  soul  like  rain. 

HELPER  OF  THE  POOR  AND  SUFFERING 
VICTOR  IN  A  GLORIOUS  STRIFE  ; 

SINGER  OF  A  NOBLE  POEM  :          , 
Such  the  honors  of  my  life. 

Ah,  that  dream  !     Long  years  that  gave  me 
Joy  and  grief  as  real  things 


18  TRUE  HONORS. 

Never  touched  the  tender  memory 
Sweet  and  solemn  that  it  brings, — 

Never  quite  effaced  the  feeling 

Of  those  white  and  shadowing  wings. 

Do  those  blue  eyes  open  wider  ? 

Does  my  faith  too  foolish  seem  ? 
Yes,  my  darling,  years  have  taught  me 

It  was  nothing  but  a  dream. 
Soon,  too  soon,  the  bitter  knowledge 

Of  a  fearful  trial  rose, 
Rose  to  crush  my  heart,  and  sternly 

Bade  my  young  ambition  close. 

More  and  more  my  eyes  were  clouded, 

Till  at  last  God's  glorious  light 
Passed  away  from  me  forever, 

And  I  lived  and  live  in  night. 
Dear,  I  will  not  dim  your  pleasure, 

Christmas  should  be  only  gay : — 
In  my  night  the  stars  have  risen, 

And  I  wait  the  dawn  of  day. 

Spite  of  all  I  could  be  happy : 

For  my  brothers'  tender  care 
In  their  boyish  pastimes  ever 

Made  me  take,  or  feel  a  share. 
Philip,  even  then  so  thoughtful, 

Max  so  noble,  brave,  and  tall, 
And  your  father,  little  Godfrey, 

The  most  loving  of  them  all. 


TRUE  HONORS. 

Philip  reasoned  down  my  sorrow, 

Max  would  laugh  my  gloom  away, 
Godfrey's  little  arms  put  round  me 

Helped  me  through  my  dreariest  day ; 
While  the  promise  of  my  Angel, 

Like  a  star,  now  bright,  now  pale, 
Hung  in  blackest  night  above  me. 

And  I  felt  it  could  not  fail. 

Years  passed  on,  my  brothers  left  me, 

Each  went  out  to  take  his  share 
In  the  struggle  of  life  ;  my  portion 

Was  a  humble  one — to  bear. 
Here  I  dwelt,  and  learnt  to  wander 

Through  the  woods  and  fields  along, 
Every  cottage  in  the  village 

Had  a  corner  called  my  own. 

Old  and  young,  all  brought  their  troubles, 

Great  or  small,  for  me  to  hear  ; 
I  have  often  blessed  my  sorrow 

That  drew  others'  grief  so  near. 
Ah,  the  people  needed  helping — 

Needed  love — (for  Love  and  Heaven 
Are  the  only  gifts  not  bartered, 

They  alone  are  freely  given) — 

And  I  gave  it.     Philip's  bounty 
(We  were  orphans,  dear)  made  toil 

Prosper,  and  want  never  fastened 
On  the  tenants  of  the  soil. 


20  TRUE  HONORS. 

Philip's  name  (O,  how  I  gloried, 
He  so  young,  to  see  it  rise  !) 

Soon  grew  noted  among  statesmen 
As  a  patriot  true  and  wise. 

And  his  people  all  felt  honored 

To  be  ruled  by  such  a  name  ; 
I  was  proud  too  that  they  loved  me  ; 

Through  their  pride  in  him  it  came. 
He  had  gained  what  I  had  longed  for, 

I  meanwhile  grew  glad  and  gay, 
'Mid  his  people  to  be  serving 

Him  and  them,  in  some  poor  way. 

How  his  noble  earnest  speeches 

With  untiring  fervor  came  ! 
HELPER  OF  THE  POOR  AND  SUFFERING  ; 

Truly  he  deserved  the  name  ! 
Had  my  Angel's  promise  failed  me  ? 

Had  the  word  of  hope  grown  dim  ? 
Why,  my  Philip  had  fulfilled  it, 

And  I  loved  it  best  in  him ! 

Max  meanwhile — ah,  you,  my  darling, 

Can  his  loving  words  recall — 
'Mid  the  bravest  and  the  noblest, 

Braver,  nobler,  than  them  all. 
How  I  loved  him !  how  my  heart  thrilled 

When  his  sword  clanked  by  his  side, 
When  I  touched  his  gold  embroidery, 

Almost  saw  him  in  his  pride  ! 


TRUE  HONORS.  21 

So  we  parted  ;  he  all  eager 

To  uphold  the  name  he  bore, 
Leaving  in  my  charge — he  loved  me — 

Some  one  whom  he  loved  still  more  ; 
I  must  tend  this  gentle  flower, 

I  must  speak  to  her  of  him, 
For  he  feared — Love  still  is  fearful — 

That  his  memory  might  grow  dim. 

I  must  guard  her  from  all  sorrow, 

I  must  play  a  brother's  part, 
Shield  all  grief  and  trial  from  her, 

If  it  need  be,  with  my  heart. 
Years  passed,  and  his  name  grew  famous  ; 

We  were  proud,  both  she  and  I  ; 
And  we  lived  upon  his  letters, 

While  the  slow  days  fleeted  by. 

Then  at  last — you  know  the  story, 

How  a  fearful  rumor  spread, 
Till  all  hope  had  slowly  faded, 

And  we  heard  that  he  was  dead. 
Dead  !     O,  those  were  bitter  hours  ; 

Yet  within  my  soul  there  dwelt 
A  warning,  and  while  others  mourned  him, 

Something  like  a  hope  I  felt. 

His  was  no  weak  life  as  mine  was, 

But  a  life,  so  full  and  strong — 
No,  I  could  not  think  he  perished 

Nameless,  'mid  a  conquered  throng. 


22  TRUE  HONORS. 

How  she  drooped !     Years  passed ;  no  tidings 
Caine,  and  yet  that  little  flame 

Of  strange  hope  within  my  spirit 
Still  burnt  on,  and  lived  the  same. 

Ah !  my  child,  our  hearts  will  fail  us, 

When  to  us  they  strongest  seem : 
I  can  look  back  on  those  hours 

As  a  fearful,  evil  dream. 
She  had  long  despaired ;  what  wonder 

That  her  heart  had  turned  to  mine ! 
Earthly  loves  are  deep  and  tender, 

Not  eternal  and  divine ! 

Can  I  say  how  bright  a  future 

Rose  before  my  soul  that  day  ? 
O,  so  strange,  so  sweet,  so  tender! 

And  I  had  to  turn  away. 
Hard  and  terrible  the  struggle, 

For  the  pain  not  mine  alone ; 
I  called  back  my  Brother's  spirit, 

And  I  bade  him  claim  his  own. 

Told  her — now  I  dared  to  do  it — 

That  I  felt  the  day  would  rise 
When  he  would  return  to  gladden 

My  weak  heart  and  her  bright  eyes, 
And  I  pleaded — pleaded  sternly — 

In  his  name  and  for  his  sake : 
Now,  I  can  speak  calmly  of  it, 

Then,  I  thought  my  heart  would  break. 


TRUE  HONORS.  33 

Soon — ah,  Love  had  not  deceived  me, 

(Love's  true  instincts  never  err,) 
Wounded,  weak,  escaped  from  prison, 

He  returned  to  me, — to  her. 
I  could  thank  God  that  bright  morning, 

When  I  felt  my  Brother's  gaze, 
That  my  heart  was  true  and  loyal, 

As  in  our  old  boyish  days. 

Bought  by  wounds  and  deeds  of  daring, 

Honors  he  had  brought  away  ; 
Glory  crowned  his  name — my  Brother's ; 

Mine  too ! — we  were  one  that  day. 
Since  the  crown  on  him  had  fallen, 

"  VICTOR  IN  A 'NOBLE  STRIFE," 

I  could  live  and  die  contented 
With  my  poor  ignoble  life. 

Well,  my  darling,  almost  weary 

Of  my  story  ?     Wait  awhile  ; 
For  the  rest  is  only  joyful ; 

I  can  tell  it  with  a  smile. 
One  bright  promise  still  was  left  me, 

Wound  so  close  about  my  soul, 
That,  as  one  by  one  had  failed  me, 

This  dream  now  absorbed  the  whole. 

**  SINGER  OF  A  NOBLE  POEM," — 

Ah,  my  darling,  few  and  rare 
Burn  the  glorious  names  of  Poets, 

Like  stars  in  the  purple  air. 


24  TRUE  HONORS. 

That  too,  and  I  glory  in  it, 

That  great  gift  my  Godfrey  won ; 

I  have  my  dear  share  of  honor, 
Gained  by  that  beloved  one. 

One  day  shall  my  darling  read  it ; 

Now  she  cannot  understand 
All  the  noble  thoughts  that  lighten 

Through  the  genius  of  the  land. 
I  am  proud  to  be  his  brother, 

Proud  to  think  that  hope  was  true ; 
Though  I  longed  and  strove  so  vainly, 

What  I  failed  in,  he  could  do. 

I  was  long  before  I  knew  it, 

Longer  ere  I  felt  it  so ; 
Then  I  strung  my  rhymes  together 

Only  for  the  poor  and  low. 
And,  it  pleases  me  to  know  it 

(For  I  love  them  well  indeed), 
They  care  for  my  humble  verses, 

Fitted  for  their  humble  need. 

And,  it  cheers  my.  heart  to  hear  it, 

Where  the  far-off  settlers  roam, 
My  poor  words  are  sung  and  cherished, 

Just  because  they  speak  of  Home. 
And  the  little  children  sing  them 

(That,  I  think,  has  pleased  me  best), 
Often,  too,  the  dying  love  them, 

For  they  tell  of  Heaven  and  rest. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION.  25 

So  my  last  vain  dream  has  faded ; 

(Such  as  I  to  think  of  fame !) 
Yet  I  will  not  say  it  failed  me, 

For  it  crowned  my  Godfrey's  name. 
No ;  my  Angel  did  not  cheat  me, 

For  my  long  life  has  been  blest ; 
He  did  give  me  Love  and  Sorrow, 

He  will  bring  me  Light  and  Rest. 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

BEFORE  I  trust  my  Fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  Future  give 

Color  and  form  to  mine, 

Before  I  peril  all  for  thee,  question  thy  soul  to-night 
for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  Past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 

Or  is  thy  Faith  as  clear  and  free  as  that  which  I  can 
pledge  to  thee? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost,  O,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost. 


26  A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION. 

Look  deeper  still.     If  thou  canst  feel 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole ; 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow,  but  in  true  mercy 
tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 

Speak  now — lest  at  some  future  day  my  whole  life 
wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit  Change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? — 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone — but  shield  my  heart 
against  thy  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 

And  answer  to  my  claim, 
That  Fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake — 

Not  thou — had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but  thou  wilt 
surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not, — I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late  ; 


THE  THREE  RULERS.  27 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 

So,  comfort  thee,  my  Fate — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall — remember  I  would 
risk  it  all ! 


THE  THREE  RULERS. 

I  SAW  a  Ruler  take  his  stand, 

And  trample  on  a  mighty  land  ; 

The  People  crouched  before  his  beck, 

His  iron  heel  was  on  their  neck, 

His  name  shone  bright  through  blood  arid  pain, 

His  sword  flashed  back  their  praise  again. 

I  saw  another  Ruler  rise  : 

His  words  were  noble,  good,  and  wise ; 

With  the  calm  sceptre  of  his  pen 

He  ruled  the  minds  and  thoughts  of  men  : 

Some  scoffed,  some  praised, — while  many  heard, 

Only  a  few  obeyed  his  word. 

Another  Ruler  then  I  saw : 

Love  and  sweet  Pity  were  his  law  ; 

The  greatest  and  the  least  had  part 

(Yet  most  the  unhappy)  in  his  heart : 

The  People  in  a  mighty  band, 

Rose  up,  and  drove  him  from  the  land ! 


28  A  DEAD  PAST. 


A  DEAD  PAST. 

SPARE  her  at  least :  look  you  have  taken  from  me 
The  Present,  and  I  murmur  not,  nor  moan ; 
The  Future  too,  with  all  her  glorious  promise ; 
But  do  not  leave  me  utterly  alone. 

Spare  me  the  Past :  for,  she,  she  cannot  harm  you, 
She  lies  so  white  and  cold,  wrapped  in  her  shroud  ; 
All,  all  my  own !  and  trust,  me,  I  will  hide  her 
Within  my  soul,  nor  speak  to  her  aloud. 

I  folded  her  soft  hands  upon  her  bosom, 
And  strewed  my  flowers  upon  her, — they  still  live  : 
Sometimes  I  like  to  kiss  her  closed  white  eyelids, 
And  think  of  all  the  joy  she  used  to  give. 

Cruel  indeed  it  were  to  take  her  from  me  ; 
She  sleeps,  she  will  not  wake — no  fear — again : 
And  so  I  laid  her,  such  a  gentle  burden, 
Quietly  on  my  heart  to  still  its  pain. 

I  do  not  think  that  any  smiling  Present, 
Any  vague  Future,  spite  of  all  her  charms, 
Could  ever  rival  her.     You  know  you  laid  her, 
Long  years  ago,  then  living,  in  my  arms. 

Leave  her  at  least ;  while  my  tears  fall  upon  her, 
I  dream  she  smiles,  just  as  she  did  of  yore ; 
As  dear  as  ever  to  me, — nay,  it  may  be, 
Even  dearer  still, — since  I  have  nothing  more. 


A  DOUBTING  HEART. 


A  DOUBTING  HEART. 

WHERE  are  the  swallows  fled  ? 

Frozen  and  dead, 
Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and  stormy  shore. 

O  doubting  heart ! 
Far  over  purple  seas, 
They  wait  in  sunny  ease, 
The  balmy  southern  breeze, 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes  once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prisoned  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 

O  doubting  heart ! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow, 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 
To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you  soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 

These  many  days ; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth  ? 

O  doubting  heart ! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky, 
That  soon  (for  spring  is  nigh) 
Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 


30  A  STUDENT. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night. 
What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  despair  ? 

O  doubting  heart ! 
The  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angel's  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 


A   STUDENT. 

OVER  an  ancient  scroll  I  bent, 
Steeping  my  soul  in  wise  content, 
Nor  paused  a  moment,  save  to  chide 

A  low  voice  whispering  at  my  side. 

• 

I  wove  beneath  the  stars'  pale  shine 
A  dream,  half  human,  half  divine  ; 
And  shook  off  (not  to  break  the  charm) 
A  little  hand  laid  on  my  arm. 

I  read  ;  until  my  heart  would  glow 
With  the  great  deeds  of  long  ago  ; 
Nor  heard,  while  with  those  mighty  dead. 
Pass  to  and  fro  a  faltering  tread. 

On  the  old  theme  I  pondered  long, — 
The  struggle  between  right  and  wrong ; 
I  could  not  check  such  visions  high, 
To  soothe  a  little  quivering  sigh. 


A  STUDENT.  31 

I  tried  to  solve  the  problem — Life ; 
Dreaming  of  that  mysterious  strife, 
How  could  I  leave  such  reasonings  wise, 
To  answer  two  blue  pleading  eyes  ? 

I  strove  how  best  to  give,  and  when, 
My  blood  to  save  my  fellow-men, — 
How  could  I  turn  aside,  to  look 
At  snowdrops  laid  upon  my  book  ? 

Now  Time  has  fled — the  world  is  strange, 
Something  there  is  of  pain  and  change ; 
My  books  lie  closed  upon  the  shelf  ; 
I  miss  the  old  heart  in  myself. 

I  miss  the  sunbeams  in  my  room, — 
It  was  not  always  wrapped  in  gloom : 
I  miss  my  dreams, — they  fade  so  fast, 
Or  flit  into  some  trivial  past. 

The  great  stream  of  the  world  goes  by ; 
None  care,  or  heed,  or  question,  why 
I,  the  lone  student,  cannot  raise 
My  voice  or  hand  as  in  old  days. 

No  echo  seems  to  wake  again 
My  heart  to  anything  but  pain, 
Save  when  a  dream  of  twilight  brings 
The  fluttering  of  an  angel's  wings  ! 


32  A  KNIGHT-ERRANT. 


A  KNIGHT-ERRANT. 

THOUGH  he  lived  and  died  among  us, 
Yet  his  name  may  be  enrolled 

With  the  knights  whose  deeds  of  daring 
Ancient  chronicles  have  told. 

Still  a  stripling,  he  encountered 
Poverty,  and  struggled  long, 

Gathering  force  from  every  effort, 
Till  he  knew  his  arm  was  strong. 

Then  his  heart  and  life  he  offered 
To  his  radiant  mistress, — Truth ; 

Never  thought,  or  dream,  or  faltering, 
Marred  the  promise  of  his  youth. 

So  he  rode  forth  to  defend  her, 
And  her  peerless  worth  proclaim  ; 

Challenging  each  recreant  doubter 
Who  aspersed  her  spotless  name. 

First  upon  his  path  stood  Ignorance, 
Hideous  in  his  brutal  might ; 

Hard  the  blows  and  long  the  battle 
Ere  the  monster  took  to  flight. 

Then,  with  light  and  fearless  spirit, 
Prejudice  he  dared  to  brave ; 

Hunting  back  the  lying  craven 
To  her  black  sulphureous  cave. 


A  KNIGHT-ERRANT.  33 

Followed  by  his  servile  minions, 

Custom,  the  old  Giant,  rose  ; 
Yet  he,  too,  at  last  was  conquered 

By  the  good  Knight's  weighty  blows. 

Then  he  turned,  and,  flushed  with  victory, 

Struck  upon  the  brazen  shield 
Of  the  world's  great  king,  Opinion, 

And  defied  him  to  the  field. 

Once  again  he  rose  a  conqueror, 
And,  though  wounded  in  the  fight, 

With  a  dying  smile  of  triumph 

Saw  that  Truth  had  gained  her  right. 

On  his  failing  ear  re-echoing 

Came  the  shouting  round  her  throne ; 

Little  cared  he  that  no  future 

With  her  name  would  link  his  own. 

Spent  with  many  a  hard-fought  battle, 

Slowly  ebbed  his  life  away, 
And  the  crowd  that  flocked  to  greet  her 

Trampled  on  him  where  he  lay. 

Gathering  all  his  strength,  he  saw  her 
Crowned  and  reigning  in  her  pride ; 

Looked  his  last  upon  her  beauty, 

Raised  his  eyes  to  God,  and  died. 
3 


34  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


LINGER,  0  GENTLE  TIME. 

LINGER,  O  gentle  Time, 
Linger,  O  radiant  grace  of  bright  To-day  ! 

Let  not  the  hours'  chime 

Call  thee  away, 
But  linger  near  me  still  with  fond  delay. 

Linger,  for  thou  art  mine  ! 
What  dearer  treasures  can  the  future  hold  ? 

What  sweeter  flowers  than  thine 

Can  she  unfold  ? 
What  secrets  tell  my  heart  thou  hast  not  told. 

O,  linger  in  thy  flight ! 
For  shadows  gather  round,  and  should  we  part, 

A  dreary,  starless  night 

May  fill  my  heart, — 
Then  pause  and  linger  yet  ere  thou  depart. 

Linger,  I  ask  no  more, — 
Thou  art  enough  forever — thou  alone ; 

What  future  can  restore, 

When  thou  art  flown, 
All  that  I  hold  from  thee  and  call  my  own  ? 


HOMEWARD   BOUND. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  fiercer  tempest, 
Known  a  louder  whirlwind  blow ; 

I  was  wrecked  off  red  Algiers, 
Six-and-thirty  3^ears  ago. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  35 

Young  I  was,  and  yet  old  seamen 

Were  not  strong  or  calm  as  I ; 
While  life  held  such  treasures  for  me, 

I  felt  sure  I  could  not  die. 

Life  I  struggled  for, — and  saved  it  ; 

Life  alone, — and  nothing  more  ; 
Bruised,  half  dead,  alone  and  helpless 

I  was  cast  upon  the  shore. 
I  feared  the  pitiless  rocks  of  Ocean ; 

So  the  great  sea  rose, — and  then 
Cast  me  from  her  friendly  bosom, 

On  the  pitiless  hearts  of  men 

Gaunt  and  dreary  ran  the  mountains, 

With  black  gorges,  up  the  land  ; 
Up  to  where  the  lonely  desert 

Spreads  her  burning,  dreary  sand  : 
In  the  gorges  of  the  mountains, 

On  the  plain  beside  the  sea, 
Dwelt  my  stern  and  cruel  masters, 

The  black  Moors  of  Barbary. 

Ten  long  years  I  toiled  among  them, 

Hopeless — as  I  used  to  say  ; 
Now  I  know  Hope  burnt  within  me 

Fiercer,  stronger,  day  by  day : 
Those  dim  years  of  toil  and  sorrow 

Like  one  long,  dark  dream  appear ; 
One  long  day  of  weary  waiting, — 

Then  each  day  was  like  a  year. 


36  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

How  I  cursed  the  land, — my  prison  ; 

How  I  cursed  the  serpent  sea, . 
And  the  Demon  Fate  that  showered 

All  her  curses  upon  me  ; 
I  was  mad,  I  think — God  pardon 

Words  so  terrible  and  wild — 
This  voyage  would  have  been  my  last  one, 

For  I  left  a  wife  and  child. 

Never  did  one  tender  vision 

Fade  away  before  my  sight, 
Never  once  through  all  my  slavery, 

Burning  day  or  dreary  night ; 
In  my  soul  it  lived,  and  kept  me, 

Now  I  feel,  from  black  despair, 
And  my  heart  was  not  quite  broken, 

While  they  lived  and  blest  me  there. 

When  at  night  my  task  was  over, 

I  would  hasten  to  the  shore 
(All  was  strange  and  foreign  inland, 

Nothing  I  had  known  before)  ; 
Strange  looked  the  bleak  mountain  passes, 

Strange  the  red  glare  and  black  shade, 
And  the  Oleanders,  waving 

To  the  sound  the  fountains  made. 

Then  I  gazed  at  the  great  Ocean, 
Till  she  grew  a  friend  again ; 

And  because  she  knew  old  England, 
I  forgave  her  all  my  pain  : 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  37 

So  the  blue  still  sky  above  me, 
With  its  white  clouds'  fleecy  fold, 

And  the  glimmering  stars  (though  brighter,) 
Looked  like  home  and  days  of  old. 

And  a  calm  would  fall  upon  me, 

Worn  perhaps  with  work  and  pain, 
The  wild,  hungry  longing  left  me, 

And  I  was  myself  again  : 
Looking  at  the  silver  waters, 

Looking  up  at  the  far  sky, 
Dreams  of  home  and  all  I  left  there 

Floated  sorrowfully  by. 

A  fair  face,  but  pale  with  sorrow, 

With  blue  eyes,  brimful  of  tears, 
And  the  little  red  mouth,  quivering 

With  a  smile  to  hide  its  fears  ; 
Holding  out  her  baby  towards  me, 

From  the  sky  she  looked  on  me : 
So  it  was  that  last  I  saw  her, 

As  the  ship  put  out  to  sea. 

Sometimes  (and  a  pang  would  seize  me 

That  the  years  were  floating  on) 
I  would  strive  to  paint  her,  altered, 

And  the  little  baby  gone : 
She  no  longer  young  and  girlish, 

The  child  standing  by  her  knee, 
And  her  face  more  pale  and  saddened 

With  the  weariness  for  me. 


38  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Then  I  saw,  as  night  grew  darker, 

How  she  taught  my  child  to  pray, 
Holding  its  small  hands  together, 

For  its  father,  far  away  ; 
And  I  felt  her  sorrow  weighing 

Heavier  on  me  than  my  own, 
Pitying  her  blighted  spring-time, 

And  her  joy  so  early  flown. 

Till  upon  my  hands  (now  hardened 

With  the  rough,  harsh  toil  of  years) 
Bitter  drops  of  anguish  falling, 

Woke  me  from  my  dream,  to  tears; 
Woke  me  as  a  slave,  an  outcast ; 

Leagues  from  home,  across  the  deep, 
So — though  you  may  call  it  childish — 

So  I  sobbed  myself  to  sleep. 

Well,  the  years  sped  on, — my  Sorrow, 

Calmer,  and  yet  stronger  grown, 
Was  my  shield  against  all  suffering, 

Poorer,  meaner,  than  her  own. 
Thus  my  cruel  master's  harshness 

Fell  upon  me  all  in  vain, 
Yet  the  tale  of  what  we  suffered 

Echoed  back  from  main  to  main. 

You  have  heard  in  a  far  country 

Of  a  self-devoted  band, 
Vowed  to  rescue.  Christian  captives 

Pining  in  a  foreign  land, 


HOMEWARD  BOUND.  39 

And  these  gentle-hearted  strangers 
Year  by  year  go  forth  from  Rome, 

In  their  hands  the  hard-earned  ransom, 
To  restore  some  exiles  home. 

I  was  freed  :  they  broke  the  tidings 

Gently  to  me  :  but  indeed 
Hour  by  hour  sped  on,  I  knew  not 

What  the  words  meant — I  was  freed  : 
Better  so,  perhaps  ;  while  sorrow 

(More  akin  to  earthly  things) 
Only  strains  the  sad  heart's  fibers, 

Joy,  bright  stranger,  breaks  the  strings. 

Yet  at  last  it  rushed  upon  me, 

And  my  heart  beat  full  and  fast ; 
What  were  now  my  years  of  waiting, 

What  was  all  the  dreary  past  ? 
Nothing — to  the  impatient  throbbing 

I  must  bear  across  the  sea  : 
Nothing — to  the  eternal  hours 

Still  between  my  home  and  me ! 

How  the  voyage  passed,  I  know  not ; 

Strange  it  was  once  more  to  stand 
With  my  countrymen  around  me, 

And  to  clasp  an  English  hand. 
But,  through  all,  my  heart  was  dreaming 

Of  the  first  words  I  should  hear, 
In  the  gentle  voice  that  echoed, 

Fresh  as  ever,  on  my  ear. 


40  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Should  I  see  her  start  of  wonder, 

And  the  sudden  truth  arise, 
Flushing  all  her  face  and  lightening 

The  dim  splendor  of  her  eyes  ? 
Oh  !  to  watch  the  fear  and  doubting 

Stir  the  silent  depths  of  pain, 
And  the  rush  of  joy — then  melting 

Into  perfect  peace  again. 

And  the  child  ! — but  why  remember 

Foolish  fancies  that  I  thought  ? 
Every  tree  and  every  hedge-row 

From  the  well-known  past  I  brought ; 
I  would  picture  my  dear  cottage, 

See  the  crackling  wood-fire  burn, 
And  the  two  beside  it  seated, 

Watching,  waiting  my  return. 

So,  at  last,  we  reached  the  harbor. 

I  remember  nothing  more 
Till  I  stood,  my  sick  heart  throbbing, 

With  my  hand  upon  the  door. 
There  I  paused — I  heard  her  speaking  ; 

Low,  soft,  murmuring  words  she  said, 
Then  I  first  knew  the  dumb  terror 

I  had  had  lest  she  were  dead. 

It  was  evening  in  late  autumn, 
And  the  gusty  wind  blew  chill  ; 

Autumn  leaves  were  falling  round  me, 
And  the  red  sun  lit  the  hill. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Six-and-twenty  years  are  vanished 
Since  then, — I  am  old  and  gray, — 

But  I  never  told  to  mortal 
What  I  saw  until  this  day. 

She  was  seated  by  the  fire, 

In  her  arms  she  held  a  child, 
Whispering  baby-words  caressing, 

And  then,  looking  up,  she  smiled  ; 
Smiled  on  him  who  stood  beside  her- — 

Oh  !  the  bitter  truth  was  told, 
In  her  look  of  trusting  fondness — 

I  had  seen  the  look  of  old ! 

But  she  rose  and  turned  towards  me 

(Cold  and  dumb  I  waited  there) 
With  a  shriek  of  fear  and  terror, 

And  a  white  face  of  despair. 
He  had  been  an  ancient  comrade, — 

Not  a  single  word  was  said, 
While  we  gazed  upon  each  other. 

He  the  living  :  I  the  dead. 

I  drew  nearer,  nearer  to  her, 

And  I  took  her  trembling  hand, 
Looking  on  her  white  face,  looking 

That  her  heart  might  understand 
All  the  love  and  all  the  pity 

That  my  lips  refused  to  say, — 
I  thank  God  no  thought  save  sorrow 

Rose  in  our  crushed  hearts  that  day. 


4:2  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

Bitter  tears  that  desolate  moment, 

Bitter,  bitter  tears  were  wept, 
We  three  broken  hearts  together, 

While  the  baby  smiled  and  slept. 
Tears  alone, — no  words  were  spoken, 

Till  he — till  her  husband  said 
That  my  boy  (I  had  forgotten 

The  poor  child,)  that  he  was  dead. 

Then  at  last,  I  rose,  and,  turning, 

Wrung  his  hand,  but  made  no  sign  ; 
And  I  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead 

Once  more,  as  if  she  were  mine. 
Nothing  of  farewell  I  uttered, 

Save  in  broken  words  to  pray 
That  God  would  ever  guard  and  bless  her,- 

Then  in  silence  passed  away. 

Over  the  great  restless  ocean 

Six-and-twenty  years  I  roam ; 
All  my  comrades,  old  and  weary, 

Have  gone  back  to  die  at  home. 
Home !  yes,  I  shall  reach  a  haven, 

I,  too,  shall  reach  home  and  rest ; 
I  shall  find  her  waiting  for  me 

With  our  baby  on  her  breast. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

"  WHAT  is  Life,  father?  " 

"  A  Battle,  my  child, 

Where  the  strongest  lance  may  fail, 
Where  the  wariest  eyes  may  be  beguiled, 

And  the  stoutest  heart  may  quail. 
Where  the  foes  are  gathered  on  every  hand, 

And  rest  not  day  or  night, 
And  the  feeble  little  ones  must  stand 

In  the  thickest  of  the  fight." 

"  What  is  Death,  father  ?  " 

"  The  rest,  my  child, 

When  the  strife  and  toil  are  o'er ; 
The  angel  of  God,  who,  calm  and  mild, 

Says  we  need  fight  no  more ; 
Who,  driving  away  the  demon  band, 

Bids  the  din  of  the  battle  cease ; 
Takes  banner  and  spear  from  our  failing  hand, 

And  proclaims  an  eternal  peace." 

"  Let  me  die,  father !     I  tremble,  and  fear 
To  yield  in  that  terrible  strife  !  " 

"  The  crown  must  be  won  for  Heaven,  dear, 
In  the  battle-field  of  life  ; 


NOW. 


My  child,  though  thy  foes  are  strong  and  tried, 

He  loveth  the  weak  and  small  ; 
The  angels  of  heaven  are  on  thy  side, 

And  God  is  over  all  !  " 


NOW. 

RISE  !  for  the  day  is  passing, 

And  you  lie  dreaming  on ; 
The  others  have  buckled  their  armor, 

And  forth  to  the  fight  are  gone : 
A  place  in  the  ranks  awaits  you, 

Each  man  has  some  part  to  play ; 
The  Past  and  Future  are  nothing, 

In  the  face  of  the  stern  To-day. 

Rise  from  your  dreams  of  the  Future, 

Of  gaining  some  hard-fought  field ; 
Of  storming  some  airy  fortress, 

Or  bidding  some  giant  yield  ; 
Your  Future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor  (God  grant  it  may  !) 
But  your  arm  will  never  be  stronger, 

Or  the  need  so  great  as  To-day. 

Rise  !  if  the  Past  detains  you, 
Her  sunshine  and  storms  forget ; 

No  chains  so  unworthy  to  hold  you 
As  those  of  a  vain  regret : 


CLEANSING  FIRES.  45 

Sad  or  bright,  she  is  lifeless  ever ; 

Cast  her  phantom  arms  away, 
Nor  look  back,  save  to  learn  the  lesson 

Of  a  nobler  strife  To-day. 

Rise !  for  the  day  is  passing ; 

The  sound  that  you  scarcely  hear 
Is  the  enemy  marching  to  battle : — 

Arise  !  for  the  foe  is  here  ! 
Stay  not  to  sharpen  your  weapons, 

Or  the  hour  will  strike  at  last, 
When  from  dreams  of  a  coming  battle, 

You  may  wake  to  find  it  past ! 


CLEANSING  FIRES. 

LET  thy  gold  be  cast  in  the  furnace, 

Thy  red  gold,  precious  and  bright ; 
Do  not  fear  the  hungry  fire, 

With  its  caverns  of  burning  light ; 
And  thy  gold  shall  return  more  precious, 

Free  from  every  spot  and  stain ; 
For  gold  must  be  tried  by  fire, 

As  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  pain. 

In  the  cruel  fire  of- sorrow 

Cast  thy  heart,  do  not  faint  or  wail : 
Let  thy  hand  be  firm  and  steady, 

Do  not  let  thy  spirit  quail : 


46  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND. 

But  wait  till  the  trial  is  over, 
And  take  thy  heart  again ; 

For  as  gold  is  tried  by  fire, 

So  a  heart  must  be  tried  by  pain ! 

I  shall  know  by  the  gleam  and  glitter 

Of  the  golden  chain  you  wear, 
By  your  heart's  calm  strength  in  loving 

Of  the  fire  they  have  had  to  bear. 
Beat  on,  true  heart,  forever; 

Shine  bright  strong  golden  chain ; 
And  bless  the  cleansing  fire, 

And  the  furnace  of  living  pain ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND. 

LET  us  throw  more  logs  on  the  fire ! 

We  have  need  of  a  cheerful  light, 
And  close  round  the  hearth  to  gather, 

For  the  wind  has  risen  to-night. 
With  the  mournful  sound  of  its  wailing 

It  has  checked  the  children's  glee, 
And  it  calls  with  a  louder  clamor 

Than  the  clamor  of  the  sea. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind ! 

Let  us  listen  to  what  it  is  saying, 
Let  us  hearken  to  where  it  has  been ; 

For  it  tells,  in  its  terrible  crying, 
The  fearful  sight  it  has  seen. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND.  47 

It  clatters  loud  at  the  casements, 

Round  the  house  it  hurries  on, 
And  shrieks  with  redoubled  fury 

When  we  say,  "  The  blast  is  gone ! " 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind ! 

It  has  been  on  the  field  of  battle, 

Where  the  dying  and  wounded  lie ; 
And  it  brings  the  last  groan  they  uttered, 

And  the  ravenous  vulture's  cry. 
It  has  been  where  the  icebergs  were  meeting, 

And  closed  with  a  fearful  crash  : 
On  shores  where  no  foot  has  wandered 

It  has  heard  the  waters  dash. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind ! 

It  has  been  on  the  desolate  ocean 

When  the  lightning  struck  the  mast; 
It  has  heard  the  cry  of  the  drowning, 

Who  sank  as  it  hurried  past ; 
The  words  of  despair  and  anguish, 

That  were  heard  by  no  living  ear, 
The  gun  that  no  signal  answered, 

It  brings  them  all  to  us  here. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind  ! 

It  has  been  on  the  lonely  moorland, 
Where  the  treacherous  snowdrift  lies, 

Where  the  traveller,  spent  and  weary, 
Gasped  fainter  and  fainter  cries ; 

It  has  heard  the  bay  of  the  bloodhounds 


TREASURES. 

On  the  track  of  the  hunted  slave, 
The  lash  and  the  curse  of  the  master, 
And  the  groan  that  the  captive  gave. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind ! 

It  has  swept  through  the  gloomy  forest, 

Where  the  sledge  was  urged  to  its  speed, 
Where  the  howling  wolves  were  rushing 

On  the  track  of  the  panting  steed. 
Where  the  pool  was  black  and  lonely, 

It  caught  up  a  splash  and  a  cry, — 
Only  the  bleak  sky  heard  it, 

And  the  wind  as  it  hurried  by. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind  I 

Then  throw  more  logs  on  the  fire, 

Since  the  air  is  bleak  and  cold, 
And  the  children  are  drawing  nigher, 

For  the  tales  that  the  wind  has  told. 
So  closer  and  closer  gather 

Round  the  red  and  crackling  light ; 
And  rejoice  (while  the  wind  is  blowing) 

We  are  safe  and  warm  to-night. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  wind  I 


TREASURES. 

LET  me  count  my  treasures, 
All  my  soul  holds  dear, 

Given  me  by  dark  spirits 
Whom  I  used  to  fear. 


TREASURES. 

Through  long  days  of  anguish, 
And  sad  nights,  did  Pain 

Forge  my  shield,  Endurance, 
Bright  and  free  from  stain ! 

Doubt,  in  misty  caverns, 
'Mid  dark  horrors  sought, 

Till  my  peerless  jewel, 
Faith,  to  me  she  brought. 

Sorrow,  that  I  wearied 
Should  remain  so  long, 

Wreathed  my  starry  glory, 
The  bright  Crown  of  Song. 

Strife,  that  racked  my  spirit 
Without  hope  or  rest, 

Left  the  blooming  flower, 
Patience,  on  my  breast. 

Suffering,  that  I  dreaded, 
Ignorant  of  her  charms, 

Laid  the  fair  child,  Pity, 
Smiling,  in  my  arms. 

So  I  count  my  treasures, 

Stored  in  days  long  past, — 
And  I  thank  the  givers, 
Whom  I  know  at  last ! 


50  SHINING  STARS. 


SHINING  STARS. 

SHINE,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  a  world  of  pain  ! 
See  old  Time  destroying 

All  our  hoarded  gain ; 
All  our  sweetest  flowers, 

Eveiy  stately  shrine, 
All  our  hard-earned  glory, 

Every  dream  divine ! 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  the  rolling  years  ! 
See  how  Time,  consoling, 

Dries  the  saddest  tears, 
Bids  the  darkest  storm-clouds 

Pass  in  gentle  rain, 
While  upspring  in  glory 

Flowers  and  dreams  again  I 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  a  world  of  fear  ! 
See  how  Time,  avenging, 

Bringeth  judgment  here : 
Weaving  ill-won  honors 

To  a  fiery  crown  ; 
Bidding  hard  hearts  perish ; 

Casting  proud  hearts  down. 


AWAITING. 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  the  hour's  slow  flight! 
See  how  Time,  rewarding, 

Gilds  good  deeds  with  light ; 
Pays  with  kingly  measure  ; 

Brings  earth's  dearest  prize  ; 
Or,  crowned  with  rays  diviner, 

Bids  the  end  arise  ! 


WAITING. 

"  WHEKEFORE  dwell  so  sad  and  lonely, 

By  the  desolate  sea-shore, 
With  the  melancholy  surges 

Beating  at  your  cottage  door  ? 

"  You  shall  dwell  beside  the  castle 
Shadowed  by  our  ancient  trees  ; 

And  your  life  shall  pass  on  gently, 
Cared  for,  and  in  rest  and  ease." 

"  Lady,  one  who  loved  me  dearly 
Sailed  for  distant  lands  away; 

And  I  wait  here  his  returning 
Hopefully  from  day  to  day. 

"  To  my  door  I  bring  my  spinning, 
Watching  every  ship  I  see ; 

Waiting,  hoping,  till  the  sunset 
Fades  into  the  western  sea. 


51 


WAITING. 

"  After  sunset,  at  my  casement, 

Still  I  place  a  signal  light ; 
He  will  see  its  well-known  shining 

Should  his  ship  return  at  night. 

"  Lady,  see  your  infant  smiling, 
With  its  flaxen  curling  hair, — 

I  remember  when  your  mother 
Was  a  baby  just  as  fair. 

"  I  was  watching  then,  and  hoping : 
Years  have  brought  great  change  to  all 

To  my  neighbors  in  their  cottage, 
To  your  nobles  at  the  hall. 

"  Not  to  me, — for  I  am  waiting, 
And  the  years  have  fled  so  fast, 

I  must  look  at  you  to  tell  me 
That  a  weary  time  has  past ! 

"  When  I  hear  a  footstep  coming 
On  the  shingle — years  have  fled — 

Yet  amid  a  thousand  others, 

I  shall  know  his  quick,  light  tread. 

"  When  I  hear  (to-night  it  may  be) 
Some  one  pausing  at  my  door, 

I  shall  know  the  gay,  soft  accents, 
Heard  and  welcomed  oft  before  ! 

"  So  each  day  I  am  more  hopeful, 
He  may  come  before  the  night ; 

Every  sunset  I  feel  surer 

He  must  come  ere  morning  light. 


THE  CRADLE^SONG  OF  THE  POOR.  53 

"  Then  I  thank  you,  noble  lady, 

But  I  cannot  do  your  will : 
Where  he  left  me  he  must  find  me, 

Waiting,  watching,  hoping,  still ! " 


THE  CRADLE-SONG  OF  THE  POOR. 

HUSH  !     I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee 

Stretch  thy  tiny  hands  in  vain  ; 
Dear,  I  have  no  bread  to  give  thee, 

Nothing,  child,  to  ease  thy  pain ! 
When  God  sent  thee  first  to  bless  me, 

Proud  and  thankful  too  was  I ; 
Now,  my  darling,  I,  thy  mother, 

Almost  long  to  see  thee  die. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary ; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

I  have  watched  thy  beauty  fading, 

And  thy  strength  sink  day  by  day, 
Soon,  I  know,  will  Want  and  Fever 

Take  thy  little  life  away. 
Famine  makes  thy  father  reckless, 

Hope  has  left  both  him  and  me ; 
We  could  suffer  all,  my  baby, 

Had  we  but  a  crust  for  thee. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 


54  THE  CRADLE-SONG  OF  THE  POOR. 

Better  thou  shouldst  perish  early, 

Starve  so  soon,  my  darling  one, 
Than  in  helpless  sin  and  sorrow 

Vainly  live,  as  I  have  done. 
Better  that  thy  angel  spirit 

With  my  joy,  my  peace,  were  flown, 
Than  thy  heart  grow  cold  and  careless, 

Reckless,  hopeless,  like  my  own. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

I  am  wasted,  dear,  with  hunger, 

And  my  brain  is  all  opprest, 
I  have  scarcely  strength  to  press  thee, 

Wan  and  feeble,  to  my  breast. 
Patience,  baby,  God  will  help  us, 

Death  will  come  to  thee  and  me, 
.He  will  take  us  to  his  heaven, 

Where  no  want  or  pain  can  be. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  thou  art  weary ; 
God  is  good,  but  life  is  dreary. 

Such  the  plaint  that,  late  and  early, 

Did  we  listen,  we  might  hear 
Close  beside  us, — but  the  thunder 

Of  a  city  dulls  our  ear. 
Every  heart,  as  God's  bright  Angel, 

Can  bid  one  such  sorrow  cease ; 
God  has  glory  when  his  children 

Bring  his  poor  ones  joy  and  peace ! 
Listen,  nearer  while  she  sings 
Sounds  the  fluttering  of  wings  ! 


GOD'S  GIFTS. 


BE  STRONG. 

BE  strong  to  hope,  O  Heart ! 

Though  day  is  bright, 
The  stars  can  only  shine 

In  the  dark  night. 
Be  strong,  O  Heart  of  mine, 

Look  towards  the  light ! 

Be  strong  to  bear,  O  Heart ! 

Nothing  is  vain : 
Strive  not,  for  life  is  care, 

And  God  sends  pain ; 
Heaven  is  above,  and  there 

Rest  will  remain ! 

Be  strong  to  love,  O  Heart ! 

Love  knows  not  wrong ; 
Didst  thou  love — creatures  even, 

Life  were  not  long ; 
Didst  thou  love  God  in  heaven, 

Thou  wouldst  be  strong ! 


55 


GOD'S  GIFTS. 

GOD  gave  a  gift  to  Earth :  a  child, 
Weak,  innocent,  and  undefiled, 
Opened  its  ignorant  eyes  and  smiled. 


56  GOD'S  GIFTS. 

It  lay  so  helpless,  so  forlorn, 
Earth  took  it  coldly  and  in  scorn, 
Cursing  the  day  when  it  was  born. 

She  gave  it  first  a  tarnished  name, 
For  heritage,  a  tainted  fame, 
Then  cradled  it  in  want  and  shame. 

All  influence  of  Good  or  Right, 
All  ray  of  God's  most  holy  light, 
She  curtained  closely  from  its  sight. 

Then  turned  her  heart,  her  eyes  away, 
Ready  to  look  again,  the  day 
Its  little  feet  began  to  stray. 

In  dens  of  guilt  the  baby  played, 
Where  sin,  and  sin  alone,  was  made 
The  law  that  all  around  obeyed. 

With  ready  and  obedient  care, 

He  learnt  the  tasks  they  taught  him  there ; 

Black  sin  for  lesson, — oaths  for  prayer. 

Then  earth  arose,  and,  in  her  might, 
To  vindicate  her  injured  right, 
Thrust  him  in  deeper  depths  of  night : 

Branding  him  with  a  deeper  brand 
Of  shame,  he  could  not  understand, 
The  felon  outcast  of  the  land. 


GOD'S  GIFTS. 

God  gave  a  gift  to  Earth :  a  child, 
Weak,  innocent,  and  undefiled, 
Opened  its  ignorant  eyes  and  smiled. 

And  earth  received  the  gift,  and  cried 
Her  joy  and  triumph  far  and  wide, 
Till  echo  answered  to  her  pride. 

She  blessed  the  hour  when  first  he  came 
To  take  the  crown  of  pride  and  fame, 
Wreathed  through  long  ages  for  his  name. 

Then  bent  her  utmost  art  and  skill 
To  train  the  supple  mind  and  will, 
And  guard  it  from  a  breath  of  ill. 

She  strewed  his  morning  path  with  flowers, 
And  Love,  in  tender  dropping  showers, 
Nourished  the  blue  and  dawning  hours. 

She  shed,  in  rainbow  hues  of  light, 
A  halo  round  the  Good  and  Right, 
To  tempt  and  charm  the  baby's  sight. 

And  every  step,  of  work  or  play, 
Was  lit  by  some  such  dazzling  ray, 
Till  morning  brightened  into  day. 

And  then  the  World  arose,  and  said, 
Let  added  honors  now  be  shed 
On  such  a  noble  heart  and  head  ! 


58  A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

O  World,  both  gifts  were  pure  and  bright, 
Holy  and  sacred  in  God's  sight : — 
God  will  judge  them  and  thee  aright ! 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

A  SMILING  look  she  had,  a  figure  slight, 

With  cheerful  air,  and  step  both  quick  and  light ; 

A  strange  and  foreign  look  the  maiden  bore, 

That  suited  the  quaint  Belgian  dress  she  wore ; 

Yet  the  blue,  fearless  eyes  in  her  fair  face, 

And  her  soft  voice,  told  her  of  English  race ; 

And  ever,  as  she  flitted  to  and  fro, 

She  sang,  (or  murmured,  rather,)  soft  and  low, 

Snatches  of  song,  as  if  she  did  not  know 

That  she  was  singing,  but  the  happy  load 

Of  dream  and  thought  thus  from  her  heart  o'erflowed 

And  while  on  household  cares  she  passed  along, 

The  air  would  bear  me  fragments  of  her  song : 

Not  such  as  village  maidens  sing,  and  few 

The  framers  of  her  changing  music  knew  ; 

Chant  such  as  heaven  and  earth  first  heard  of  when 

The  master  Palestrina  held  the  pen. 

But  I  with  awe  had  often  turned  the  page, 

Yellow  with  time,  and  half  defaced  by  age, 

And  listened,  with  an  ear  not  quite  unskilled, 

While  heart  and  soul  to  the  grand  echo  thrilled ; 

And  much  I  marvelled,  as  her  cadence  fell 

From  the  Laudate,  that  I  knew  so  well, 

Into  Scarlatti's  minor  fugue,  how  she 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT.  59 

Had  learned  such  deep  and  solemn  harmony. 
But  what  she  told  I  set  in  rhyme,  as  meet 
To  chronicle  the  influence,  dim  and  sweet, 
'Neath  which  her  young  and  innocent  life  had  grown, 
Would  that  my  words  were  simple  as  her  own. 


Many  years  since,  an  English  workman  went 
Over  the  seas  to  seek  a  home  in  Ghent, 
Where  English  skill  was  prized  ;  nor  toiled  in  vain : 
Small,  yet  enough,  his  hard-earned  daily  gain. 
He  dwelt  alone, — in  sorrow  or  in  pride. 
He  mixed  not  with  the  workers  by  his  side ; 
He  seemed  to  care  but  for  one  present  joy, — 
To  tend,  to  watch,  to  teach  his  sickly  boy. 
Severe  to  all  beside,  yet  for  the  child 
He  softened  his  rough  speech  to  soothings  mild ; 
For  him  he  smiled,  with  him  each  day  he  walked 
Through  the  dark,  gloomy  streets  ;  to  him  he  talked 
Of  home,  of  England,  and  strange  stories  told 
Of  English  heroes  in  the  days  of  old; 
And  (when  the  sunset  gilded  roof  and  spire) 
The   marvellous  tale  which    never  seemed  to   tire: 
How  the  gilt  dragon,  glaring  fiercely  down 
From  the  great  belfry,  watching  all  the  town, 
Was  brought,  a  trophy  of  the  wars  divine, 
By  a  Crusader  from  far  Palestine, 
And  given  to  Bruges ;  and  how  Ghent  arose, 
And  how  they  struggled  long  as  deadly  foes, 
Till  Ghent,  one  night,  by  a  brave  soldier's  skill, 
Stole  the  great  dragon  ;  and  she  keeps  it  still, 


60  A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

One  day  the  dragon — so  'tis  said— will  rise, 
Spread  his  bright  wings,  and  glitter  in  the  skies, 
And  over  desert  lands  and  azure  seas 
Will  seek  his  home  'mid  palm  and  cedar  trees. 
So,  as  he  passed  the  belfry  every  day, 
The  boy  would  look  if  it  were  flown  away ; 
Each  day  surprised  to  find  it  watching  there, 
Above  him,  as  he  crossed  the  ancient  square, 
To  seek  the  great  cathedral,  that  had  grown 
A  home  for  him — mysterious  as  his  own. 


Dim  with  dark  shadows  of  the  ages  past, 
St.  Bavon  stands,  solemn  and  rich  and  vast ; 
The  slender  pillars,  in  long  vistas  spread, 
Like  forest  arches  meet  and  close  o'erhead  ; 
So  high  that,  like  a  weak  and  doubting  prayer, 
Ere  it  can  float  to  the  carved  angels  there, 
The  silver  clouded  incense  faints  in  air : 
Only  the  organ's  voice,  with  peal  on  peal, 
Can  mount  to  where  those  far-off  angels  kneel. 
Here  the  pale  boy,  beneath  a  low  side-arch, 
Would  listen  to  its  solemn  chant  or  march  ; 
Folding  his  little  hands,  his  simple  prayer 
Melted  in  childish  dreams,  and  both  in  air : 
While  the  great  organ  over  all  would  roll, 
Speaking  strange  secrets  to  his  innocent  soul. 
Bearing  on  eagle-wings  the  great  desire 
Of  all  the  kneeling  throng,  and  piercing  higher 
Than  aught  but  love  and  prayer  can  reach,  until 
Only  the  silence  seemed  to  listen  still ; 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


Or  gathering  like  a  sea  still  more  and  more, 
Break  in  melodious  waves  at  Heaven's  door, 
And  then  fall,  slow  and  soft,  in  tender  rain, 
Upon  the  pleading,  longing  hearts  again. 


Then  he  would  watch  the  rosy  sunlight  glow, 
That  crept  along  the  marble  floor  below, 
Passing,  as  life  does,  with  the  passing  hours, 
Now  by  a  shrine  all  rich  with  gems  and  flowers. 
Now  on  the  brazen  letters  of  a  tomb, 
Then,  leaving  it  again  to  shade  and  gloom, 
And  creeping  on,  to  show,  distinct  and  quaint, 
The  kneeling  figure  of  some  marble  saint : 
Or  lighting  up  the  carvings  strange  and  rare, 
That  told  of  patient  toil,  and  reverent  care ; 
Ivy  that  trembled  on  the  spray,  and  ears 
Of  heavy  corn,  and  slender  bulrush  spears, 
And  all  the  thousand  tangled  weeds  that  grow 
In  summer,  where  the  silver  rivers  flow ; 
And  demon-heads  grotesque,  that  seemed  to  glare 
In  impotent  wrath  on  all  the  beauty  there : 
Then  the  gold  rays  up  pillared  shaft  would  climb, 
And  so  be  drawn  to  heaven,  at  evening  time. 
And  deeper  silence,  darker  shadows  flowed 
On  all  around,  only  the  windows  glowed 
With  blazoned  glory,  like  the  shields  of  light 
Archangels  bear,  who,  armed  with  love  and  might, 
Watch  upon  heaven's  battlements  at  night. 
Then  all  was  shade  ;  the  silver  lamps  that  gleamed, 
Lost  in  the  daylight,  in  the  darkness  seemed 


62  A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

Like  sparks  of  fire  in  the  dim  aisles  to  shine, 
Or  trembling  stars  before  each  separate  shrine. 
Grown  half  afraid,  the  child  would  leave  them  there, 
And  come  out,  blinded  by  the  noisy  glare 
That  burst  upon  him  from  the  busy  square. 


The  church  was  thus  his  home  for  rest  or  play ; 
And  as  he  came  he  went  again  each  day, 
The  pictured  faces  that  he  knew  so  well 
Seemed  to  smile  on  him  welcome  and  farewell. 
But  holier,  and  dearer  far  than  all, 
One  sacred  spot  his  own  he  loved  to  call ; 
Save  at  mid-day,  half-hidden  by  the  gloom  ; 
The  people  call  it  The  White  Maiden's  Tomb: 
For  there  she  stands  ;  her  folded  hands  are  pressed 
Together,  and  laid  softly  on  her  breast, 
As  if  she  waited  but  a  word  to  rise 
From  the  dull  earth,  and  pass  to  the  blue  skies ; 
Her  lips  expectant  part,  she  holds  her  breath, 
As  listening  for  the  angel  voice  of  death. 
None  know  how  many  years  have  seen  her  so, 
Or  what  the  name  of  her  who  sleeps  below. 
And  here  the  child  would  come,  and  strive  to  trace, 
Through  the  dim  twilight,  the  pure,  gentle  face 
He  loved  so  well,  and  here  he  oft  would  bring 
Some  violet-blossom  of  the  early  spring, 
And,  climbing  softly  by  the  fretted  stand, 
Not  to  disturb  her,  lay  it  in  her  hand ; 
Or,  whispering  a  soft,  loving  message  sweet, 
Would  stoop  and  kiss  the  little  marble  feet. 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT.  (53 

So,  when  the  organ's  pealing  music  rang, 

He  thought  amid  the  gloom  the  Maiden  sang ; 

With  reverent,  simple  faith  by  her  he  knelt, 

And  fancied  what  she  thought,  and  what  she  felt : 

"  Glory  to  God,"  re-echoed  from  her  voice, 

And  then  his  little  spirit  would  rejoice  ; 

Or  when  the  Requiem  sobbed  upon  the  air, 

His  baby  tears  dropped  with  her  mournful  prayer. 

So  years  fled  on,  while  childish  fancies  past, 
The  childish  love  and  simple  faith  could  last. 
The  artist-soul  awoke  in  him,  the  flame 
Of  genius,  like  the  light  of  Heaven,  came 
Upon  his  brain,  and  (as  it  will,  if  true) 
It  touched  his  heart  and  lit  his  spirit,  too. 
His  father  saw,  and  with  a  proud  content 
Let  him  forsake  the  toil  where  he  had  spent 
His  youth's  first  years,  and  on  one  happy  day 
Of  pride,  before  the  old  man  passed  away, 
He  stood  with  quivering  lips,  and  the  big  tears 
Upon  his  cheek,  and  heard  the  dream  of  years 
Living  and  speaking  to  his  very  heart, — 
The  low,  hushed  murmur  at  the  wondrous  art 
Of  him  who  with   young,    trembling    fingers  made 
The  great  church-organ  answer  as  he  played ; 
And,  as  the  uncertain  sound  grew  full  and  strong, 
Rush  with  harmonious  spirit-wings  along, 
And  thrill  with  master-power  the  breathless  throng. 

The  old  man  died,  and  years  passed  on,  and  still 
The  young  musician  bent  his  heart  and  will 


64  A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

To  his  dear  toil.     St.  Bavon  now  had  grown 

More  dear  to  him,  and  even  more  his  own ; 

And  as  he   left  it  every  night  he  prayed 

A  moment  by  the  archway  in  the  shade, 

Kneeling  once  more  within  the  sacred  gloom, 

Where  the  White  Maiden  watched  upon  her  tomb 

His  hopes  of  travel  and  a  world-wide  fame, 

Cold  time  had  sobered,  and  his  fragile  frame  ; 

Content  at  last  only  in  dreams  to  roam, 

Away  from  the  tranquillity  of  home  ; 

Content  that  the  poor  dwellers  by  his  side 

Saw  in  him  but  the  gentle  friend  and  guide, 

The  patient  counsellor  in  the  poor  strife 

And  petty  details  of  their  common  life, 

Who  comforted  where  woe  and  grief  might  fall, 

Nor  slighted  any  pain  or  want  as  small, 

But  whose  great  heart  took  in  and  felt  for  all. 


Still  he  grew  famous  ; — many  came  to  be 
His  pupils  in  the  art  of  harmony. 
One  day  a  voice  floated  so  pure  and  free 
Above  his  music,  that  he  turned  to  see 
What  angel  sang,  and  saw  before  his  eyes 
What  made  his  heart  leap  with  a  strange  surprise, 
His  own  White  Maiden,  calm,  and  pure,  and  mild, 
As  in  his  childish  dreams  she  sang  and  smiled ; 
Her  eyes  raised  up  to  Heaven,  her  lips  apart, 
And  music  overflowing  from  her  heart. 
But  the  faint  blush  that  tinged  her  cheek  betrayed 
No  marble  statue,  but  a  living  maid ; 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT.  55 

Perplexed  and  startled  at  his  wondering  look, 
Her  rustling  score  of  Mozart's  Sanctus  shook  ; 
The  uncertain  notes,  like  birds  within  a  snare, 
Fluttered  and  died  upon  the  trembling  air. 

Days  passed :  each  morning  saw  the  maiden  stand, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  lesson  in  her  hand, 
Eager  to  study,  never  weary,  while 
Repaid  by  the  approving  word  or  smile 
Of  her  kind  master ;  days  and  months  fled  on  ; 
One  day  the  pupil  from  the  choir  was  gone ; 
Gone  to  take  light,  and  joy,  and  youth  once  more 
Within  the  poor  musician's  humble  door ; 
And  to  repay,  with  gentle,  happy  art, 
The  debt  so  many  owed  his  generous  heart. 
And  now,  indeed,  was  one  who  knew  and  felt 
That  a  great  gift  of  God  within  him  dwelt ; 
One  who  could  listen,  who  could  understand, 
Whose  idle  work  dropped  from  her  slackened  hand, 
While  with  wet  eyes  entranced  she  stood,  nor  knew 
How  the  melodious  winged  hours  flew ; 
Who  loved  his  art  as  none  had  loved  before, 
Yet  prized  the  noble,  tender  spirit  more. 
While  the  great  organ  brought  from  far  and  near 
Lovers  of  harmony  to  praise  and  hear. 
Unmarked  by  aught  save  what  filled  every  day, 
Duty,  and  toil,  and  rest,  years  passed  away : 
And  now  by  the  low  archway  in  the  shade 
Beside  her  mother  knelt  a  little  maid, 
Who  through  the  great  cathedral  learned  to  roam, 
Climb  to  the  choir,  and  bring  her  father  home ; 
5. 


66  A  TOMB  IN  GHENT. 

And  stand,  demure  and  solemn  by  his  side, 
Patient  till  the  last  echo  softly  died  ; 
Then  place  her  little  hand  in  his,  and  go 
Down  the  dark  winding  stair  to  where  below 
The  mother  knelt,  within  the  gathering  gloom, 
Waiting  and  praying  by  the  Maiden's  Tomb. 

So  their  life  went,  until,  one  winter's  day, 
Father  and  child  came  there  alone  to  pray, — 
The  mother,  gentle  soul,  had  fled  away ! 
Their  life  was  altered  now,  and  yet  the  child 
Forgot  her  passionate  grief  in  time,  and  smiled, 
Half  wondering  why,  when  spring's  fresh  breezes  came, 
To  see  her  father  was  no  more  the  same. 
Half  guessing  at  the  shadow  of  his  pain, 
And  then  contented  if  he  smiled  again, 
A  sad,  cold  smile,  that  passed  in  tears  away, 
As  reassured  she  ran  once  more  to  play. 
And  now  each  year  that  added  grace  to  grace, 
Fresh  bloom  and  sunshine  to  the  young  girl's  face, 
Brought  a  strange  light  in  the  musician's  eyes, 
As  if  he  saw  some  starry  hope  arise, 
Breaking  upon  the  midnight  of  sad  skies. 
It  might  be  so :  more  feeble  year  by  year, 
The  wanderer  to  his  resting-place  drew  near. 
One  day  the  Gloria  he  could  play  no  more, 
Echoed  its  grand  rejoicing  as  of  yore  ; 
His  hands  were  clasped,  his  weary  head  was  laid, 
Upon  the  tomb  where  the  White  Maiden  prayed ; 
Where  the  child's  love  first  dawned,  his  soul  first  spoke, 
The  old  man's  heart  there  throbbed  its  last  and  broke. 


A  TOMB  IN  GHENT.  07 

The  grave  cathedral  that  had  nursed  his  youth, 
Had   helped    his    dreaming,   and    had   taught  him 

truth, 

Had  seen  his  boyish  grief  and  baby  tears, 
And  watched  the  sorrows  and  the  joys  of  years, 
Had  lit  his  fame  and  hope  with  sacred  rays, 
And  consecrated  sad  and  happy  days, 
Had  blessed  his  happiness,  and  soothed  his  pain, 
Now  took  her  faithful  servant  home  again. 

He  rests  in  peace :  some  travellers  mention  yet 
An  organist  whose  name  they  all  forget. 
He  has  a  holier  and  a  nobler  fame 
By   poor   men's   hearths,    who   love   and   bless   the 

name 

Of  a  kind  friend ;  and  in  low  tones  to-day 
Speak  tenderly  of  him  who  passed  away. 
Too  poor  to  help  the  daughter  of  their  friend, 
They  grieved  to  see  the  little  pittance  end ; 
To  see  her  toil  and  strive  with  cheerful  heart, 
To  bear  the  lonely  orphan's  struggling  part ; 
They  grieved  to  see  her  go  at  last  alone 
To  English  kinsmen  she  had  never  known  : 
And  here  she  came ;  the  foreign  girl  soon  found 
Welcome,  and  love,  and  plenty  all  around, 
And  here  she  pays  it  back  with  earnest  will, 
By  well-taught  housewife  watchfulness  and  skill ; 
Deep  in  her  heart  she  holds  her  father's  name, 
And  tenderly  and  proudly  keeps  his  fame ; 
And  while  she  works  with  thrifty  Belgian  care, 
Past  dreams  of  childhood  float  upon  the  air ; 


3  THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH. 

Some  strange  old  chant,  or  solemn  Latin  hymn, 
That  echoed  through  the  old  cathedral  dim, 
When  as  a  little  child  each  day  she  went 
To  kneel  and  pray  by  an  old  tomb  in  Ghent. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH. 

WHY  shouldst  thou  fear  the  beautiful  angel,  Death, 
Who  waits  thee  at  the  portals  of  the  skies, 

Ready  to  kiss  away  thy  struggling  breath, 
Ready  with  gentle  hand  to  close  thine  eyes  ? 

How  many  a  tranquil  soul  has  passed  away, 
Fled  gladly  from  fierce  pain  and  pleasures  dim, 

To  the  eternal  splendor  of  the  day ; 

And  many  a  troubled  heart  still  calls  for  him. 

Spirits  too  tender  for  the  battle  here 

Have  turned  from   life,  its  hopes,  its  fears,  its 

charms, 
And  children,  shuddering  at  a  word  so  drear, 

Have  smiling  passed  away  into  his  arms. 

He  whom  thou  fearest  will,  to  ease  its  pain, 
Lay  his  cold  hand  upon  thy  aching  heart  : 

Will  soothe  the  terrors  of  thy  troubled  brain, 
And  bid  the  shadows  of  earth's  grief  depart. 

He  will  give  back  what  neither  time,  nor  might, 
Nor  passionate  prayer,  nor  longing  hope  restore, 

(Dear  as  to  long-blind  eyes  recovered  sight,) 
He  will  give  back  those  who  are  gone  before. 


A  DREAM. 


69 


O,  what  were  life,  if  life  were  all  ?     Thine  eyes 
Are  blinded  by  their  tears,  or  thou  wouldst  see 

Thy  treasures  wait  thee  in  the  far-off  skies, 

And  Death,  thy  friend,  will  give  them  all  to  thee. 


A  DREAM. 

ALL  yesterday  I  was  spinning, 

Sitting  alone  in  the  sun  ; 
And  the  dream  that  I  spun  was  so  lengthy, 

It  lasted  till  day  was  done. 

I  heeded  not  cloud  or  shadow 

That  flitted  over  the  hill, 
Or  the  humming-bees,  or  the  swallows, 

Or  the  trickling  of  the  rill. 

I  took  the  threads  for  my  spinning, 

All  of  blue  summer  air, 
And  a  flickering  ray  of  sunlight 

Was  woven  in  here  and  there. 

The  shadows  grew  longer  and  longer, 

The  evening  wind  passed  by, 
And  the  purple  splendor  of  sunset 

Was  flooding  the  western  sky. 

But  I  could  not  leave  my  spinning, 
For  so  fair  my  dream  had  grown, 

I  heeded  not,  hour  by  hour, 
How  the  silent  day  had  flown. 


70  THE  PRESENT. 

At  last  the  gray  shadows  fell  round  me, 
And  the  night  came  dark  and  chill, 

And  I  rose  and  ran  down  the  valley, 
And  left  it  all  on  the  hill. 

I  went  up  the  hill  this  morning 

To  the  place  where  my  spinning  lay, — 

There  was  nothing  but  glistening  dew-drops 
Remained  of  ray  dream  to-day. 


THE  PRESENT. 

Do  not  crouch  to-day,  and  worship 

The  old  Past,  whose  life  is  fled  ; 
Hush  your  voice  to  tender  reverence  ; 

Crowned  he  lies,  but  cold  and  dead : 
For  the  Present  reigns  our  monarch, 

With  an  added  weight  of  hours ; 
Honor  her,  for  she  is  mighty  ! 

Honor  her,  for  she  is  ours ! 

See  the  shadows  of  her  heroes 

Girt  around  her  cloudy  throne  ; 
Every  day  the  ranks  are  strengthened 

By  great  hearts  to  him  unknown ; 
Noble  things  the  great  Past  promised, 

Holy  dreams  both  strange  and  new ; 
But  the  Present  shall  fulfil  them, 

What  he  promised  she  shall  do. 


CHANGES.  71 

She  inherits  all  his  treasures, 

She  is  heir  to  all  his  fame, 
And  the  light  that  lightens  round  her 

Is  the  lustre  of  his  name ; 
She  is  wise  with  all  his  wisdom. 

Living  on  his  grave  she  stands, 
On  her  brow  she  bears  his  laurels, 

And  his  harvest  in  her  hands. 

Coward,  can  she  reign  and  conquer 

If  we  thus  her  glory  dim  ? 
Let  us  fight  for  her  as  nobly 

As  our  fathers  fought  for  him. 
God,  who  crowns  the  dying  ages, 

Bids  her  rule,  and  us  obey, — 
Bids  us  cast  our  lives  before  her, 

Bids  us  serve  the  great  To-day. 


CHANGES. 

MOURN,  O  rejoicing  heart ! 

The  hours  are  flying ; 
Each  one  some  treasure  takes, 
Each  one  some  blossom  breaks, 

And  leaves  it  dying ; 
The  chill  dark  night  draws  near, 

Thy  sun  will  soon  depart, 

And  leave  thee  sighing  ; 
Then  mourn,  rejoicing  heart, 

The  hours  are  flying ! 


72  STRIVE,  WAIT,  AND  PRAY. 

Rejoice,  O  grieving  heart ! 

The  hours  fly  fast ; 
With  each  some  sorrow  dies, 
With  each  some  shadow  flies, 

Until  at  last 
The  red  dawn  in  the  east 

Bids  weary  night  depart, 

And  pain  is  past. 
Rejoice  then,  grieving  heart, 

The  hours  fly  fast ! 


STRIVE,  WAIT,  AND  PRAY. 

STRIVE  ;  yet  I  do  not  promise 

The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 
Will  not  fade  when  you  think  to  grasp  it, 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away ; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure, 

You  would  now  perchance  disdain, 
Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over, 

And  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait ;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you 

The  hour  you  long  for  now 
Will  not  come  with  its  radiance  vanished, 

And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow; 
Yet  far  through  the  misty  future, 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  winging  her  silent  flight. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SUMMER.        73 

Pray ;  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears, 
May  never  repay  your  pleading, 

Yet  pray,  and  with  hopeful  tears  ; 
An  answer,  not  that  you  long  for, 

But  diviner,  will  come  one  day; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 

Yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SUMMER. 

MOAN,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds  ! 

Summer  has  fled, 
The  flowers  have  closed  their  tender  leaves  and  died ; 

The  lily's  gracious  head 
All  low  must  lie, 

Because  the  gentle  Summer  now  is  dead. 

Grieve,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds  ! 

Summer  lies  low ; 
The  rose's  trembling  leaves  will  soon  be  shed, 

For  she  that  loved  her  so, 
Alas !  is  dead, 

And  one  by  one  her  loving  children  go. 

Wail,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds ! 

She  lives  no  more, 
The  gentle  summer,  with  her  balmy  breath 

Still  sweeter  than  before 
When  nearer  death, 

And  brighter  every  day  the  smile  she  wore ! 


74  THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 

Mourn,  mourn,  O  Autumn  Winds  ! 

Lament  and  mourn ; 
How  many  half-blown  buds  must  close  and  die, 

Hopes  with  the  summer  born 
All  faded  lie, 

And  leave  us  desolate  and  Earth  forlorn  ! 


THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 

No  name  to  bid  us  know 

Who  rests  below, 
No  word  of  death  or  birth, 

Only  the  grass's  wave, 
Over  a  mound  of  earth, 

Over  a  nameless  grave. 

Did  this  poor  wandering  heart 

In  pain  depart? 
Longing,  but  all  too  late, 

For  the  calm  home  again, 
Where  patient  watchers  wait, 

And  still  will  wait  in  vain. 

Did  mourners  come  in  scorn, 

And  thus  forlorn, 
Leave  him  with  grief  and  shame, 

To  silence  and  decay, 
And  hide  the  tarnished  name 

Of  the  unconscious  clay  ? 


GIVE  ME  THY  HEART. 

It  may  be  from  his  side 

His  loved  ones  died, 
And,  last  of  some  bright  band, 

(Together  now  once  more,) 
He  sought  his  home,  the  land 

Where  they  had  gone  before. 

No  matter, — limes  have  made 

As  cool  a  shade, 
And  lingering  breezes  pass 

As  tenderly  and  slow, 
As  if  beneath  the  grass 

A  monarch  slept  below. 

No  grief,  though  loud  and  deep, 

Could  stir  that  sleep  ; 
And  earth  and  heaven  tell 

Of  rest  that  shall  not  cease, 
Where  the  cold  world's  farewell 

Fades  into  endless  peace. 


GIVE  ME  THY  HEART. 

WITH  echoing  steps  the  worshippers 

Departed  one  by  one  ; 
The  organ's  pealing  voice  was  stilled, 

The  vesper  hymn  was  done  ; 
The  shadows  fell  from  roof  and  arch, 

Dim  was  the  incensed  air, 
One  lamp  alone,  with  trembling  ray, 

Told  of  the  Presence  there ! 


GIVE  ME  THY  HEART. 

In  the  dark  church  she  knelt  alone ; 

Her  tears  were  falling  fast ; 
"  Help,  Lord,"  she  cried,  "  the  shades  of  death 

Upon  my  soul  are  cast ! 
Have  I  not  shunned  the  path  of  sin, 

And  chosen  the  better  part?  " 
What  voice  came  through  the  sacred  air  ? — 

"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart !  " 

"  Have  I  not  laid  before  Thy  shrine 

My  wealth,  O  Lord?"  she  cried; 
"  Have  I  kept  aught  of  gems  or  gold, 

To  minister  to  pride  ? 
Have  I  not  bade  youth's  joys  retire, 

And  vain  delights  depart  ?  " — 
But  sad  and  tender  was  the  voice, — 

"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart !  " 

"  Have  I  not,  Lord,  gone  day  by  day 

Where  Th}r  poor  children  dwell ;  „ 

And  carried  help,  and  gold,  and  food? 

O  Lord,  Thou  knowest  it  well ! 
From  many  a  house,  from  many  a  soul, 

My  hand  bids  care  depart :  "- 
More  sad,  more  tender  was  the  voice, — 

"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart !  " 

"  Have  I  not  worn  my  strength  away 

With  fast  and  penance  sore  ? 
Have  I  not  watched  and  wept  ?  "  she  cried ; 

"  Did  Thy  clear  Saints  do  more  ? 


GIVE  ME  THY  HEART. 

Have  I  not  gained  Thy  grace,  O  Lord, 
And  won  in  heaven  my  part  ?  " 

It  echoed  louder  in  her  soul, — 
"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart ! 

"  For  I  have  loved  thee  with  a  love 

No  mortal  heart  can  show ; 
A  love  so  deep,  my  Saints  in  heaven 

Its  depths  can  never  know ; 
When  pierced  and  wounded  on  the  Cross, 

Man's  sin  and  doom  were  mine, 
I  loved  thee  with  undying  love, 

Immortal  and  divine  ! 

"  I  loved  thee  ere  the  skies  were  spread; 

My  soul  bears  all  thy  pains  ; 
To  gain  thy  love%  my  sacred  Heart 

In  earthly  shrines  remains  : 
Vain  are  thy  offerings,  vain  thy  sighs, 

Without  one  gift  divine  ; 
Give  it,  my  child,  thy  Heart  to  me, 

And  it  shall  rest  in  mine  ! " 

In  awe  she  listened,  and  the  shade 

Passed  from  her  soul  away ; 
In  low  and  trembling  voice  she  cried, — 

"  Lord,  help  me  to  obey  ! 
Break  thou  the  chains  of  earth,  O  Lord, 

That  bind  and  hold  my  heart ; 
Let  it  be  Thine,  and  Thine  alone, 

Let  none  with  Thee  have  part. 


78  THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

"  Send  down,  O  Lord,  thy  sacred  fire ! 

Consume  and  cleanse  the  sin 
That  lingers  still  within  its  depths  ; 

Let  heavenly  love  begin. 
That  sacred  flame  Thy  Saints  have  known, 

Kindle,  O  Lord,  in  me, 
Thou  above  all  the  rest  forever, 

And  all  the  rest  in  Thee." 

The  blessing  fell  upon  her  soul ; 

Her  angel  by  her  side 
Knew  that  the  hour  of  peace  was  come  ; 

Her  soul  was  purified : 
The  shadows  fell  from  roof  and  arch, 

Dim  was  the  incensed  air, — 
But  Peace  went  with  her  as  she  left 

The  sacred  Presence  there  ! 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

A  LITTLE  past  the  village 

The  Inn  stood,  low  and  white ; 
Green  shady  trees  behind  it, 

And  an  orchard  on  the  right ; 
Where  over  the  green  paling 

The  red-cheeked  apples  hung, 
As  if  to  watch  how  wearily 

The  sign-board  creaked  and  swung. 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

The  heavy-laden  branches, 

Over  the  road  hung  low, 
Deflected  fruit  or  blossom 

From  the  wayside  well  below ; 
Where  children,  drawing  water, 

Looked  up  and  paused  to  see, 
Amid  the  apple-branches, 

A  purple  Judas-Tree. 

The  road  stretched  winding  onward 

For  many  a  weary  mile, — 
So  dusty,  foot-sore  wanderers 

Would  pause  and  rest  awhile ; 
And  panting  horses  halted, 

And  travellers  loved  to  tell 
The  quiet  of  the  wayside  inn, 

The  orchard,  and  the  well. 

Here  Maurice  dwelt ;  and  often 

The  sunburnt  boy  would  stand 
Gazing  upon  the  distance, 

And  shading  with  his  hand 
His  eyes,  while  watching  vainly 

For  travellers,  who  might  need 
His  aid  to  loose  the  bridle, 

And  tend  the  weary  steed. 

And  once  (the  boy  remembered 
That  morning  many  a  day, — 

The  dew  lay  on  the  hawthorn, 
The  bird  sang  on  the  spray) 


80  THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

A  train  of  horsemen,  nobler 
Than  he  had  seen  before, 

Up  from  the  distance  galloped, 
And  halted  at  the  door. 

Upon  a  milk-white  pony, 

Fit  for  a  fairy  queen, 
Was  the  loveliest  little  damsel 

His  eyes  had  ever  seen  : 
A  serving-man  was  holding 

The  leading  rein,  to  guide 
The  pony  and  its  mistress, 

Who  cantered  by  his  side. 

Her  sunny  ringlets  round  her 

A  golden  cloud  had  made, 
While  her  large  hat  was  keeping 

Her  calm  blue  eyes  in  shade ; 
One  hand  held  fast  the  silken  reins 

To  keep  her  steed  in  check. 
The  other  pulled  his  tangled  mane, 

Or  stroked  his  glossy  neck. 

And  as  the  boy  brought  water, 

And  loosed  the  rein,  he  heard 
The  sweetest  voice  that  thanked  him 

In  one  low  gentle  word ; 
She  turned  her  blue  eyes  from  him, 

Looked  up,  and  smiled  to  see 
The  hanging  purple  blossoms 

Upon  the  Judas-Tree  ; 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

And  showed  it  with  a  gesture, 

Half  pleading,  half  command, 
Till  he  broke  the  fairest  blossom 

And  laid  it  in  her  hand ; 
And  she  tied  it  to  her  saddle 

With  a  ribbon  from  her  hair 
While  her  happy  laugh  rang  gayly, 

Like  silver  on  the  air. 

But  the  champing  steeds  were  rested, 

The  horsemen  now  spurred  on, 
And  down  the  dusty  highway 

They  vanished  and  were  gone. 
Years  passed,  and  many  a  traveller 

Paused  at  the  old  inn-door, 
But  the  little  milk-white  pony 

And  the  child  returned  no  more. 

Years  passed,  the  apple-branches 

A  deeper  shadow  shed ; 
And  many  a  time  the  Judas-Tree, 

Blossom  and  leaf,  lay  dead  ; 
When  on  the  loitering  western  breeze 

Came  the  bells'  merry  sound, 
And  flowery  arches  rose,  and  flags 

And  banners  waved  around. 

Maurice  stood  there  expectant : 
The  bridal  train  would  stay 

Some  moments  at  the  inn-door 
The  eager  watchers  say ; 


82  THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

They  come, — the  cloud  of  dust  draws  near,- 

'Mid  all  the  state  and  pride, 
He  only  sees  the  golden  hair 

And  blue  eyes  of  the  bride. 

The  same,  yet,  ah,  still  fairer ; 

He  knew  the  face  once  more 
That  bent  above  the  pony's  neck 

Years  past  at  that  inn-door : 
Her  shy  and  smiling  eyes  looked  round, 

Unconscious  of  the  place, 
Unconscious  of  the  eager  gaze 

He  fixed  upon  her  face. 

He  plucked  a  blossom  from  the  tree, — 

The  Judas-Tree, — and  cast 
Its  purple  fragrance  towards  the  Bride, 

A  message  from  the  Past. 
The  signal  came,  the  horses  plunged, — 

Once  more  she  smiled  around : 
The  purple  blossom  in  the  dust 
Lay  trampled  on  the  ground. 

Again  the  slow  years  fleeted, 

Their  passage  only  known 
By  the  height  the  Passion-flower 

Around  the  porch  had  grown ; 
And  many  a  passing  traveller 

Paused  at  the  old  inn-door, 
But  the  bride,  so  fair  and  blooming, 

The  bride  returned  no  more. 


THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

One  winter  morning,  Maurice, 

Watching  the  branches  bare, 
Rustling  and  waving  dimly 

In  the  gray  and  misty  air, 
Saw  blazoned  on  a  carriage 

Once  more  the  well-known  shield, 
The  stars  and  azure  fleurs-de-lis 

Upon  a  silver  field. 

He  looked — was  that  pale  woman, 

So  grave,  so  worn,  so  sad, 
The  child,  once  young  and  smiling, 

The  bride,  once  fair  and  glad? 
What  grief  had  dimmed  that  glory, 

And  brought  that  dark  eclipse 
Upon  her  blue  eyes'  radiance, 

And  paled  those  trembling  lips? 

What  memory  of  past  sorrow, 

What  stab  of  present  pain, 
Brought  that  deep  look  of  anguish, 

That  watched  the  dismal  rain, 
That  watched  (with  the  absent  spirit 

That  looks,  yet  does  not  see) 
The  dead  and  leafless  branches 

Upon  the  Judas-Tree  ? 

The  slow  dark  months  crept  onward 

Upon  their  icy  way, 
Till  April  broke  in  showers, 

And  Spring  smiled  forth  in  May ; 


84  THE  WAYSIDE  INN. 

Upon  the  apple-blossoms 
The  sun  shone  bright  again, 

When  slowly  up  the  highway 
Came  a  long  funeral  train. 


The  bells  tolled  slowly,  sadly, 

For  a  noble  spirit  fled  ; 
Slowly,  in  pomp  and  honor, 

They  bore  the  quiet  dead. 
Upon  a  black-plumed  charger 

One  rode,  who  held  a  shield, 
Where  stars  and  azure  fleurs-de-lis 

Shone  on  a  silver  field. 


'Mid  all  that  homage  given 

To  a  fluttering  heart  at  rest, 
Perhaps  an  honest  sorrow 

Dwelt  only  in  one  breast. 
One  by  the  inn-door  standing 

Watched  with  fast-dropping  tears 
The  long  procession  passing, 

And  thought  of  bygone  years. 

The  boyish,  silent  homage 
To  child  and  bride  unknown, 

The  pitying,  tender  sorrow 
Kept  in  his  heart  alone, 

Now  laid  upon  the  coffin 

With  a  purple  flower,  might  be 


VOICES  OF  THE  PAST.  85 

Told  to  the  cold,  dead  sleeper ; — 

The  rest  could  only  see 
A  fragrant  purple  blossom, 

Plucked  from  a  Judas-Tree. 


VOICES  OF  THE  PAST. 

You  wonder  that  my  tears  should  flow 
In  listening  to  that  simple  strain  ; 

That  those  unskilful  sounds  should  fill 
My  soul  with  joy  and  pain  : 

How  can  you  tell  what  thoughts  it  stirs 
Within  my  heart  again? 

You  wonder  why  that  common  phrase, 

So  all  unmeaning  to  your  ear, 
Should  stay  me  in  my  merriest  mood, 

And  thrill  my  soul  to  hear : 
How  can  you  tell  what  ancient  charm 

Has  made  me  hold  it  dear  ? 

You  marvel  that  I  turn  away 

From  all  those  flowers  so  fair  and  bright, 
And  gaze  at  this  poor  herb,  till  tears 

Arise  and  dim  my  sight : 
You  cannot  tell  how  every  leaf 

Breathes  of  a  past  delight. 

You  smile  to  see  me  turn  and  speak 
With  one  whose  converse  you  despise ; 


86  THE  DARK  SIDE. 

You  do  not  see  the  dreams  of  old 
That  with  his  voice  arise : 

How  can  you  tell  what  links  have  made 
Him  sacred  in  my  eyes  ? 

O,  these  are  Voices  of  the  Past, 

Links  of  a  broken  chain, 
Wings  that  can  bear  me  back  to  Times 

Which  cannot  come  again ; 
Yet  God  forbid  that  I  should  lose 

The  echoes  that  remain ! 


THE  DARK  SIDE. 

THOU  hast  done  well,  perhaps, 

To  lift  the  bright  disguise, 
And  lay  the  bitter  truth 

Before  our  shrinking  eyes ; 
When  evil  crawls  below 

What  seems  so  pure  and  fair, 
Thine  eyes  are  keen  and  true 

To  find  the  serpent  there : 
And  yet — I  turn  away ; 

Thy  task  is  not  divine, — - 
The  evil  angels  look 

On  earth  with  eyes  like  thine. 

Thou  hast  done  well,  perhaps, 
To  show  how  closely  wound 

Dark  threads  of  sin  and  self 
With  our  best  deeds  are  found, 


THE  DARK  SIDE. 

How  great  and  noble  hearts, 

Striving  for  lofty  aims, 
Have  still  some  earthly  chord 

A  meaner  spirit  claims  ; 
And  yet — although  thy  task 

Is  well  and  fairly  done — 
Methinks  for  such  as  thou 

There  is  a  holier  one. 


Shadows  there  are,  who  dwell 

Among  us,  yet  apart, 
Deaf  to  the  claim  of  God, 

Or  kindly  human  heart; 
Voices  of  earth  and  heaven 

Call,  but  they  turn  away, 
And  Love,  through  such  black  night 

Can  see  no  hope  of  day ; 
And  yet — our  eyes  are  dim, 

And  thine  are  keener  far : 
Then  gaze  till  thou  canst  see 

The  glimmer  of  some  star. 

The  black  stream  flows  along 

Whose  waters  we  despise, — 
Show  us  reflected  there 

Some  fragment  of  the  skies ; 
'Neath  tangled  thorns  and  briers, 

(The  task  is  fit  for  thee,) 
Seek  for  the  hidden  flowers, 

We  are  too  blind  to  see ; 


gg  A  FIRST  SORROW. 

Then  will  I  thy  great  gift 
A  crown  and  blessing  call ; 

Angels  look  thus  on  men, 
And  God  sees  good  in  all ! 


A  FIRST  SORROW. 

ARISE  !  this  day  shall  shine, 

Forevermore, 
To  thee  a  star  divine, 

On  Time's  dark  shore. 

Till  now  thy  soul  has  been 

All  glad  and  gay : 
Bid  it  awake,  and  look 

At  grief  to-day ! 

No  shade  has  come  between 

Thee  and  the  sun  ; 
Like  some  long  childish  dream 

Thy  life  has  run : 

But  now  the  stream  has  reached 

A  dark,  deep  sea, 
And  Sorrow,  dim  and  crowned, 

Is  waiting  thee. 

Each  of  God's  soldiers  bears 

A  sword  divine : 
Stretch  out  thy  trembling  hands 
To-day  for  thine ! 


MURMURS.  gg 

To  each  anointed  Priest 

God's  summons  came : 
O  Soul,  he  speaks  to-day, 

And  calls  thy  name. 

Then,  with  slow  reverent  step, 

Arid  beating  heart, 
From  out  thy  joyous  days 

Thou  must  depart. 

And,  leaving  all  behind, 

Come  forth  alone, 
To  join  the  chosen  band 

Around  the  throne. 

Raise  up  thine  eyes — be  strong, 

Nor  cast  away 
The  crown  that  God  has  given 

Thy  soul  to-day ! 


MURMURS. 

WHY  wilt  thou  make  bright  music 
Give  forth  a  sound  of  pain  ? 

Why  wilt  thou  weave  fair  flowers 
Into  a  weary  chain  ? 

Why  turn  each  cool  gray  shadow 

Into  a  world  of  tears  ? 
Why  say  the  winds  are  wailing? 

Why  call  the  dew-drops  tears  ? 


90  MURMURS. 

The  voices  of  happy  nature, 
And  the  Heaven's  sunny  gleam, 

Reprove  thy  sick  heart's  fancies, 
Upbraid  thy  foolish  dream. 

Listen,  and  I  will  tell  thee 

The  song  Creation  sings, 
From  the  humming  of  bees  in  the  heather, 

To  the  flutter  of  angels'  wings. 

An  echo  rings  forever, 

The  sound  can  never  cease ; 
It  speaks  to  God  of  glory, 

It  speaks  to  Earth  of  peace. 

Not  alone  did  angels  sing  it 

To  the  poor  shepherds'  ear  ; 
But  the  sphered  Heavens  chant  it, 

While  listening  ages  hear. 

Above  thy  peevish  wailing 

Rises  that  holy  song ; 
Above  Earth's  foolish  clamor, 

Above  the  voice  of  wrong. 

No  creature  of  God's  too  lowly 
To  murmur  peace  and  praise : 

When  the  starry  nights  grow  silent, 
Then  speak  the  sunny  days. 

So  leave  thy  sick  heart's  fancies, 

And  lend  thy  little  voice 
To  the  silver  song  of  glory 

That  bids  the  world  rejoice. 


GIVE. 


91 


GIVE. 

SEE  the  rivers  flowing 

Downwards  to  the  sea, 
Pouring  all  their  treasures 

Bountiful  and  free  : 
Yet  to  help  their  giving 

Hidden  springs  arise ; 
Or,  if  need  be,  showers 

Feed  them  from  the  skies  ! 

Watch  the  princely  flowers 

Their  rich  fragrance  spread, 
Load  the  air  with  perfumes, 

From  their  beauty  shed  : 
Yet  their  lavish  spending 

Leaves  them  not  in  dearth, 
With  fresh  life" replenished 

By  their  mother  earth ! 

Give  thy  heart's  best  treasures,- 

From  fair  Nature  learn  ; 
Give  thy  love — and  ask  not, 

Wait  not  a  return ! 
And  the  more  thou  spendest 

From  thy  little  store, 
With  a  double  bounty 

God  will  give  thee  more. 


92  MY  JOURNAL 


MY  JOURNAL. 

IT  is  a  dreary  evening ; 

The  shadows  rise  and  fall : 
With  strange  and  ghostly  changes 

They  flicker  on  the  wall. 

Make  the  charred  logs  burn  brighter 
I  will  show  you,  by  their  blaze, 

The  half-forgotten  record 
Of  bygone  things  and  days. 

Bring  here  the  ancient  volume ; 

The  clasp  is  old  and  worn, 
The  gold  is  dim  and  tarnished, 

And  the  faded  leaves  are  torn. 


The  dust  has  gathered  on  it, — 
There  are  so  few  who  care 

To  read  what  Time  has  written 
Of  joy  and  sorrow  there. 

Look  at  the  first  fair  pages  ; 

Yes,  I  remember  all : 
The  joys  now  seem  so  trivial, 

The  griefs  so  poor  and  small. 


MY  JOURNAL. 

Let  us  read  the  dreams  of  glory 
That  childish  fancy  made ; 

Turn  to  the  next  few  pages, 
And  see  how  soon  they  fade. 

Here,  where  still  waiting,  dreaming, 

For  some  ideal  Life, 
The  young  heart  all  unconscious 

Had  entered  on  the  strife. 


See  how  this  page  is  blotted : 

What,  could  those  tears  be  mine? 

How  coolly  I  can  read  you 

Each  blurred  and  trembling  line  I 

Now  I  can  reason  calmly, 

And,  looking  back  again, 
Can  see  divinest  meaning 

Threading  each  separate  pain. 

Here  strong  resolve — how  broken ; 

Rash  hope,  and  foolish  fear, 
And  prayers,  which  God  in  pity 

Refused  to  grant  or  hear. 

Nay,  I  will  turn  the  pages 

To  where  the  tale  is  told 
Of  how  a  dawn  diviner 

Flushed  the  dark  clouds  with  gold. 


93 


94  MY  JOURNAL. 

And  see,  that  light  has  gilded 
The  story, — nor  shall  set; 

And,  though  in  mist  and  shadow, 
You  know  I  see  it  yet. 


Here — well,  it  does  not  matter, 

I  promised  to  read  all : 
I  know  not  why  I  falter, 

Or  why  my  tears  should  fall ; 

You  see  each  grief  is  noted ; 

Yet  it  was  better  so — 
I  can  rejoice  to-day — the  pain 

Was  over,  long  ago. 

I  read — my  voice  is  failing, 
But  you  can  understand 

How  the  heart  beat  that  guided 
This  weak  and  trembling  hand. 

Pass  over  that  long  struggle, 
Read  where  the  comfort  came, 

Where  the  first  time  is  written 
Within  the  book  your  name. 

Again  it  comes,  and  oftener, 
Linked,  as  it  now  must  be, 

With  all  the  joy  or  sorrow 
That  Life  may  bring  to  me. 


A  CHAIN.  95 

So  all  the  rest — you  know  it : 

Now  shut  the  clasp  again, 
And  put  aside  the  record 

Of  bygone  hours  of  pain. 

The  dust  shall  gather  on  it, 

I  will  not  read  it  more : 
Give  me  your  hand — what  was  it 

We  were  talking  of  before  ? 

I  know  not  why — but  tell  me 

Of  something  gay  and  bright. 
It  is  strange — my  heart  is  heavy, 

And  my  eyes  are  dim  to-night. 


A  CHAIN. 

THE  bond  that  links  our  souls  together, 

Will  it  last  through  stormy  weather? 

Will  it  moulder  and  decay 

As  the  long  hours  pass  away? 

Will  it  stretch  if  Fate  divide  us, 

When  dark  and  weary  hours  have  tried  us? 

O,  if  it  look  too  poor  and  slight, 

Let  us  break  the  links  to-night ! 

It  was  not  forged  by  mortal  hands, 
Or  clasped  with  golden  bars  and  bands  ; 
Save  thine  and  mine,  no  other  eyes 
The  slender  link  can  recognize  : 


96  A  QHAIN. 

In  the  bright  light  it  seems  to  fade — 
And  it  is  hidden  in  the  shade ; 
While  Heaven  nor  Earth  have  never  heard 
Or  solemn  vow,  or  plighted  word. 

Yet  what  no  mortal  hand  could  make 
No  mortal  power  can  ever  break ; 
What  words  or  vows  could  never  do, 
No  words  or  vows  can  make  untrue ; 
And  if  to  other  hearts  unknown 
The  dearer  and  the  more  our  own, 
Because  too  sacred  and  divine 
For  other  eyes,  save  thine  and  mine. 

And  see,  though  slender  it  is  made 
Of  Love  and  Trust,  and  can  they  fade  ? 
While,  if  too  slight  it  seem,  to  bear 
The  breathings  of  the  summer  air, 
We  know  that  it  could  bear  the  weight 
Of  a  most  heavy  heart  of  late, 
And  as  each  day  and  hour  flew 
The  stronger  for  its  burden  grew. 

And,  too,  we  know  and  feel  again 
It  has  been  sanctified  by  pain, 
For  what  God  deigns  to  try  with  sorrow 
He  means  not  to  decay  to-morrow; 
But  through  that  fiery  trial  at  last 
When  earthly  ties  and  bonds  are  past ; 
What  slighter  things  dare  not  endure 
Will  make  our  Love  more  safe  and  pure. 


THE  PILGRIMS.  97 

Love  shall  be  purified  by  Pain, 
And  Pain  be  soothed  by  Love  again : 
So  let  us  now  take  heart  and  go 
Cheerfully  on,  through  joy  and  woe  ; 
No  change  the  summer  sun  can  bring, 
Or  the  inconstant  skies  of  spring, 
Or  the  bleak  winter's  stormy  weather, 
For  we  shall  meet  them,  Love,  together ! 


THE  PILGRIMS. 

THE  way  is  long  and  dreary, 
The  path  is  bleak  and  bare  ; 
Our  feet  are  worn  and  weary, 
But  we  will  not  despair : 
More  heavy  was  Thy  burden, 
More  desolate  Thy  way  ; — 
O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 
The  sin  of  the  world  away, 
Have  mercy  on  us. 

The  snows  lie  thick  around  us 
In  the  dark  and  gloomy  night ; 
And  the  tempest  wails  above  us, 
And  the  stars  have  hid  their  light ; 
But  blacker  was  the  darkness 
Round  Calvary's  Cross  that  day  ; — 
O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 
The  sin  of  the  world  away, 
Have  mercy  on  us. 


98  INCOMPLETENESS. 

Our  hearts  are  faint  with  sorrow, 
Heavy  and  hard  to  bear ; 
For  we  dread  the  bitter  morrow, 
But  we  will  not  despair  : 
Thou  knowest  all  our  anguish, 
And  Thou  wilt  bid  it  cease, — 
O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 
The  sin  of  the  world  away, 
Grive  us  Thy  Peace. 


INCOMPLETENESS. 

NOTHING  resting  in  its  own  completeness 
Can  have  worth  or  beauty :  but  alone 
Because  it  leads  and  tends  to  further  sweetness, 
Fuller,  higher,  deeper  than  its  own. 

Spring's  real  glory  dwells  not  in  the  meaning, 
Gracious  though  it  be,  of  her  blue  hours  ; 
But  is  hidden  in  her  tender  leaning 
To  the  Summer's  richer  wealth  of  flowers. 

Dawn  is  fair,  because  the  mists  fade  slowly 
Into  day,  which  floods  the  world  with  light; 
Twilight's  mystery  is  so  sweet  and  holy 
Just  because  it  ends  in  starry  Night. 

Childhood's  smiles  unconscious  graces  borrow 
From  Strife,  that  in  a  far-off  future  lies ; 
And  angel  glances  (veiled  now  by  Life's  sorrow) 
Draw  our  hearts  to  some  beloved  eyes. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  99 

Life  is  only  bright  when  it  proceedeth 
Towards  a  truer,  deeper  Life  above ; 
Human  Love  is  sweetest  when  it  leadeth 
To  a  more  divine  and  perfect  Love. 

Learn  the  mystery  of  Progression  duly : 
Do  not  call  each  glorious  change,  Decay ; 
But  know  we  only  hold  our  treasures  truly, 
When  it  seems  as  if  they  passed  away. 

Nor  dare  to  blame  God's  gifts  for  incompleteness  ; 
In  that  want  their  beauty  lies  :  they  roll 
Towards  some  infinite  depth  of  love  and  sweetness, 
Bearing  onward  man's  reluctant  soul. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

GIRT  round  with  rugged  mountains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies  ; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below ! 

Midnight  is  there  ;  and  Silence, 
Enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 

Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 
Upon  a  sleeping  town : 


100  A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

For  Bregeuz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep  : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread : 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters, 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones, 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more  strange  ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife, 
Each  day  she  rose,  contented, 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  ancient  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year  ; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stock, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields. 

Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered, 
With  looks  cast  on  the  ground ; 

With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 
The  women  gathered  round  ; 


102  A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away, 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled, 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land  ! 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  has  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  !  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror, 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part,) 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  1Q3 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz  ; 

Once  more  her  towers  arose  ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her? 

Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk, 

The  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains, 

Reclaimed  her  as  their  own  ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die  ! " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step,  she  sped ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed  ; 
She  loosed  the  strong,  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Towards  her  native  land. 

Out — out  into  the  darkness — 

Faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 

The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 


104  A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

She  looks  up ;  clouds  are  heavy : 
Why  is  her  steed  so  slow  ? — 

Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 
Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"  Faster  !  "  she  cries,  "  O  faster  !  " 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime  : 
"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness, 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep ; 
One  pause — he  staggers  forward, 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see — in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  105 

Up  the  steep  banks  he  bears  her, 

And  now,  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !  ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned  ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long 

And  calls  each  passing  hour ; 


106  A  FAREWELL. 

"  Nine,"  "  ten,"  "  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 
And  then  (O  crown  of  Fame  I) 

When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 
He  calls  the  maiden's  name  ! 


A  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL,  O  dream  of  mine  ! 

I  dare  not  stay ; 
The  hour  is  come,  and  time 

Will  not  delay ; 
Pleasant  and  dear  to  me 

Wilt  thou  remain ; 
No  future  hour 

Brings  thee  again. 

She  stands,  the  Future  dim, 

And  draws  me  on, 
And  shows  me  dearer  joys, — 

But  thou  art  gone  ! 
Treasures  and  hopes  more  fair 

Bears  she  for  me, 
And  yet  I  linger, 

O  dream,  with  thee ! 

Other  and  brighter  days 

Perhaps  she  brings ; 
Deeper  and  holier  songs 

Perchance  she  sings ; 


SOWING  AND  REAPING. 

But  thou  and  I,  fair  time, 
We  too  must  sever : — 

O  dream  of  mine, 
Farewell  forever ! 


SOWING  AND  REAPING. 

Sow  with  a  generous  hand  ; 

Pause  not  for  toil  or  pain  ; 
Weary  not  through  the  heat  of  summer, 

Weary  not  through  the  cold  spring  rain, 
But  wait  till  the  autumn  comes 

For  the  sheaves  of  golden  grain. 

Scatter  the  seed,  and  fear  not, 

A  table  will  be  spread  ; 
What  matter  if  you  are  too  weary 

To  eat  your  hard-earned  bread  ! 
Sow,  while  the  earth  is  broken, 

For  the  hungry  must  be  fed. 

Sow  ; — while  the  seeds  are  lying 
In  the  warm  earth's  bosom  deep, 

And  your  warm  tears  fall  upon  it, — 
They  will  stir  in  their  quiet  sleep ; 

And  the  green  blades  rise  the  quicker, 
Perchance,  for  the  tears  you  weep. 

Then  sow ; — for  the  hours  are  fleeting, 
the  s"eed  must  fall  to-day ; 


108  THE  STORM. 

And  care  not  what  hands  shall  reap  it, 
Or  if  you  shall  have  passed  away 

Before  the  waving  cornfields 
Shall  gladden  the  sunny  day. 

Sow ;  and  look  onward,  upward, 

Where  the  starry  light  appears, 
Where,  in  spite  of  the  coward's  doubting, 
Or  your  own  heart's  trembling  fears, 
You  shall  reap  in  joy  the  harvest 
You  have  sown  to-day  in  tears. 


THE  STORM. 

THE  tempest  rages  wild  and  high, 
The  waves  lift  up  their  voice  and  cry 
Fierce  answers  to  the  angry  sky, — 

Miserere  Domine 

Through  the  black  night  and  driving  rain 
A  ship  is  struggling,  all  in  vain, 
To  live  upon  the  stormy  main  ; — 

Miserere  Domine. 

The  thunders  roar,  the  lightnings  glare, 
Vain  is  it  now  to  strive  or  dare  ; 
A  cry  goes  up  of  great  despair, — 

Miserere  Domine. 


WORDS.  109 

rain 


The  stormy  voices  of  the  main, 
The  moaning  winds  and  pelting  rain 
Beat  on  the  nursery  window-pane  : — 

Miserere  Domine. 

Warm  curtained  was  the  little  bed, 
Soft  pillowed  was  the  little  head  ; 
"  The  storm  will  wake  the  child,"  they  said : — 

Miserere  Domine. 


Cowering  among  his  pillows  white 

He  prays,  his  blue  eyes  dim  with  fright, 

*'•  Father,  save  those  at  sea  to-night ! " — 

Miserere  Domine. 

The  morning  shone  all  clear  and  gay 
On  a  ship  at  anchor  in  the  bay, 
And  on  a  little  child  at  play, — 

Gloria  tibi  Domine. 


WORDS. 

WORDS  are  lighter  than  the  cloud-foam 

Of  the  restless  ocean  spray ; 
Vainer  than  the  trembling  shadow 

That  the  next  hour  steals  away. 
By  the  fall  of  summer  rain-drops 

Is  the  air  as  deeply  stirred ; 
And  the  rose-leaf  that  we  tread  on 

Will  outlive  a  word. 


110  WORDS. 

Yet,  on  the  dull  silence  breaking 

With  a  lightning  flash,  a  Word, 
Bearing  endless  desolation 

On  its  blighting  wings,  I  heard : 
Earth  can  forge  no  keener  weapon, 

Dealing  surer  death  and  pain, 
And  the  cruel  echo  answered 

Through  long  years  again. 

I  have  known  one  word  hang  star-like 

O'er  a  dreary  waste  of  years, 
And  it  only  shone  the  brighter 

Looked  at  through  a  mist  of  tears ; 
While  a  weary  wanderer  gathered 

Hope  and  heart  on  Life's  dark  way, 
By  its  faithful  promise-shining 

Clearer  day  by  day. 

I  have  known  a  spirit,  calmer 

Than  the  calmest  lake,  and  clear 
As  the  heavens  that  gazed  upon  it, 

With  no  wave  of  hope  or  fear ; 
But  a  storm  had  swept  across  it, 

And  its  deepest  depths  were  stirred, 
(Never,  never  more  to  slumber,) 

Only  by  a  word. 

I  have  known  a  word  more  gentle 
Than  the  breath  of  summer  air  ; 

In  a  listening  heart  it  nestled, 
And  it  lived  forever  there. 


A  LOVE  TOKEN. 

Not  the  beating  of  its  prison 
Stirred  it  ever,  night  or  day, 

Only  with  the  heart's  last  throbbing 
Could  it  fade  away. 

Words  are  mighty,  words  are  living ; 

Serpents  with  their  venomous  stings, 
Or  bright  angels  crowding  round  us,, 

With  heaven's  light  upon  their  wings. 
Every  word  has  its  own  spirit, 

True  or  false,  that  never  dies  ; 
Every  word  man's  lips  have  uttered 

Echoes  in  God's  skies. 


Ill 


A  LOVE   TOKEN. 

Do  you  grieve  no  costly  offering 
To  the  Lady  you  can  make  ? 

One  there  is,  and  gifts  less  worthy 
Queens  have  stooped  to  take. 

Take  a  Heart  of  virgin  silver, 
Fashion  it  with  heavy  blows, 

Cast  it  into  Love's  hot  furnace 
When  it  fiercest  glows. 

With  Pain's  sharpest  point  transfix  it, 
And  then  carve,  in  letters  fair, 

Tender  dreams  and  quaint  devices, 
Fancies  sweet  and  rare. 


112  A  TRYST  WITH  DEATH. 

Set  within  it  Hope's  blue  sapphire, 

Many-changing  opal  fears, 
Blood-red  ruby-stones  of  daring, 

Mixed  with  pearly  tears. 

And  when  you  have  wrought  and  labored 
Till  the  gift  is  all  complete, 
You  may  humbly  lay  your  offering 
At  the  Lady's  feet. 

Should  her  mood  perchance  be  gracious, 
With  disdainful,  smiling  pride, 

She  will  place  it  with  the  trinkets 
Glittering  at  her  side. 


A  TRYST  WITH  DEATH. 

I  AM  footsore  and  very  weary, 
But  I  travel  to  meet  a  Friend : 

The  way  is  long  and  dreary, 

But  I  know  that  it  soon  must  end. 

He  is  travelling  fast  like  the  whirlwind, 
And  though  I  creep  slowly  on, 

We  are  drawing  nearer,  nearer, 
And  the  journey  is  almost  done. 

Through  the  heat  of  many  summers, 
Through  many  a  springtime  rain, 

Through  long  autumns  and  weaiy  winters, 
I  have  hoped  to  meet  him,  in  vain. 


FIDELIS. 

I  know  that  he  will  not  fail  me, 

So  I  count  every  hour  chime, 
Every  throb  of  my  heart's  beating, 

That  tells  of  the  flight  of  Time. 

On  the  day  of  my  birth  he  plighted 

His  kingly  word  to  me  : — 
I  have  seen  him  in  dreams  so  often, 

That  I  know  what  his  smile  must  be. 

I  have  toiled  through  the  sunny  woodland, 
Through  fields  that  basked  in  the  light ; 

And  through  the  lone  paths  in  the  forest 
I  crept  in  the  dead  of  night. 

I  will  not  fear  at  his  coming, 

Although  I  must  meet  him  alone ; 

He  will  look  in  my  eyes  so  gently, 
And  take  my  hand  in  his  own. 

Like  a  dream  all  my  toil  will  vanish, 
When  I  lay  my  head  on  his  breast : 

But  the  journey  is  very  weary, 
And  he  only  can  give  me  rest. 


FIDELIS. 

You  have  taken  back  the  promise 
That  you  spoke  so  long  ago ; 

Taken  back  the  heart  you  gave  me, 
I  must  even  let  it  go. 


114  FIDELIS. 

Where  love  once  has  breathed,  Pride  dieth, 

So  I  struggled,  but  in  vain, 
First  to  keep  the  links  together, 

Then  to  piece  the  broken  chain. 

But  it  might  not  be — so  freely 

All  your  friendship  I  restore, 
And  the  heart  that  I  had  taken 

As  my  own  forevermore. 
No  shade  of  reproach  shall  touch  you, 

Dread  no  more  a  claim  from  me : 
But  I  will  not  have  you  fancy 

That  I  count  myself  as  free. 

I  am  bound  by  the  old  promise ; 

What  can  break  that  golden  chain  ? 
Not  even  the  words  that  you  have  spoken, 

Or  the  sharpness  of  my  pain  : 
Do  you  think  because  you  fail  me 

And  draw  back  your  hand  to-day, 
That  from  out  the  heart  I  gave  you 

My  strong  love  can  fade  away  ? 

It  will  live.     No  eyes  may  see  it ; 

In  my  soul  it  will  lie  deep, 
Hidden  from  all ;  but  I  shall  feel  it 

Often  stirring  in  its  sleep. 
So  remember,  that  the  friendship, 

Which  you  now  think  poor  and  vain, 
Will  endure  in  hope  and  patience, 

Till  you  ask  for  it  again. 


A  SHADOW. 

Perhaps  in  some  long  twilight  hour, 

Like  those  we  have  known  of  old, 
When  past  shadows  gather  round  you, 

And  your  present  friends  grow  cold, 
You  may  stretch  your  hands  out  towards  me, 

Ah  !  you  will — I  know  not  when — 
I  shall  nurse  my  love  and  keep  it 

Faithfully,  for  you,  till  then. 


A  SHADOW. 

WHAT  lack  the  valleys  and  mountains 

That  once  were  green  and  gay  ? 
What  lack  the  babbling  fountains? 
Their  voice  is  sad  to-day. 
Only  the  sound  of  a  voice, 
Tender  and  sweet  and  low, 
That  made  the  earth  rejoice, 
A  year  ago ! 

What  lack  the  tender  flowers  ? 

A  shadow  is  on  the  sun : 
What  lack  the  merry  hours, 

That  I  long  that  they  were  done  ? 
Only  two  smiling  eyes, 
That  told  of  joy  and  mirth  ; 
They  are  shining  in  the  skies, 
I  mourn  on  earth  ! 


116  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

What  lacks  my  heart,  what  makes  it 

So  weary  and  full  of  pain, 
That  trembling  hope  forsakes  it, 
Never  to  come  again  ? 
Only  another  heart, 
Tender  and  all  mine  own, 
In  the  still  grave  it  lies ; 
I  weep  alone ! 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

MY  Life  you  ask  of  ?  why,  you  know 

Full  soon  my  little  Life  is  told ; 

It  has  had  no  great  joy  or  woe, 

For  I  am  only  twelve  years  old. 

Ere  long  I  hope  I  shall  have  been 

On  my  first  voyage,  and  wonders  seen. 

Some  princess  I  may  help  to  free 

From  pirates  on  a  far-off  sea ; 

Or,  on  some  desert  isle  be  left, 

Of  friends  and  shipmates  all  bereft. 

For  the  first  time  I  venture  forth 
From  our  blue  mountains  of  the  north, 
My  kinsman  kept  the  lodge  that  stood 
Guarding  the  entrance  near  the  wood. 
By  the  stone  gateway  gray  and  old, 
With  quaint  devices  carved  about, 
And  broken  shields  ;  while  dragons  bold 
Glared  on  the  common  world  without : 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

And  the  long  trembling  ivy  spray 

Half  hid  the  centuries'  decay. 

In  solitude  and  silence  grand 

The  castle  towered  above  the  land : 

The  castle  of  the  Earl,  whose  name 

(Wrapped  in  old  bloody  legends)  came 

Down  through  the  times  when  Truth  and  Right 

Bent  down  to  arme*d  Pride  and  Might. 

He  owned  the  country  far  and  near ; 

And,  for  some  weeks  in  every  year, 

(When  the  brown  leaves  were  falling  fast 

And  the  long,  lingering  autumn  past,) 

He  would  come  down  to  hunt  the  deer, 

With  hound  and  horse  in  splendid  pride. 

The  story  lasts  the  live-long  year, 

The  peasant's  winter  evening  fills, 

When  he  is  gone  and  they  abide 

In  the  lone  quiet  of  their  hills. 


I  longed,  too,  for  the  happy  night, 
When,  all  with  torches  flaring  bright, 
The  crowding  villagers  would  stand, 
A  patient,  eager,  waiting  band, 
Until  the  signal  ran  like  flame, 
"  They  come  ! "  and,  slackening  speed,  they  came, 
Outriders  first,  in  pomp  and  state, 
Pranced  on  their  horses  through  the  gate  ; 
Then  the  four  steeds  as  black  as  night, 
All  decked  with  trappings  blue  and  white, 
Drew  through  the  crowd  that  opened  wide, 


118  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  side  by  side, 
The  stern  grave  Earl,  with  formal  smile 
And  glistening  eyes  and  stately  pride, 
Could  ne'er  my  childish  gaze  beguile 
From  the  fair  presence  by  his  side. 
The  lady's  soft  sad  glance,  her  eyes, 
(Like  stars  that  shone  in  summer  skies,) 
Her  pure  white  face  so  calmly  bent, 
With  gentle  greetings  round  her  sent; 
Her  look,  that  always  seemed  to  gaze 
Where  the  blue  past  had  closed  again 
Over  some  happy  shipwrecked  days, 
With  all  their  freight  of  love  and  pain : 
She  did  not  even  seem  to  see 
The  little  lord  upon  her  knee. 
And  yet  he  was  like  angel  fair, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair, 
That  fell  on  shoulders  white  as  snow : 
But  the  blue  eyes  that  shone  below 
His  clustering  rings  of  auburn  curls 
Were  not  his  mother's,  but  the  Earl's. 


I  feared  the  Earl,  so  cold  and  grim, 
I  never  dared  be  seen  by  him. 
When  through  our  gate  he  used  to  ride, 
My  kinsman  Walter  bade  me  hide ; 
He  said  he  was  so  stern. 
So,  when  the  hunt  came  past  our  way, 
I  always  hastened  to  obey, 
Until  I  he'ard  the  bugles  play 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

The  notes  of  their  return. 

But  she, — my  very  heart-strings  stir 

Whene'er  I  speak  or  think  of  her, — 

The  whole  wide  world  could  never  see 

A  noble  lady  such  as  she, 

So  full  of  angel  charity. 

Strange  things  of  her  our  neighbors  told 
In  the  long  winter  evenings  cold, 
Around  the  fire.     They  would  draw  near 
And  speak  half- whispering,  as  in  fear ; 
As  if  they  thought  the  Earl  could  hear 
Their  treason  'gainst  his  name. 
They  thought  the  story  that  his  pride 
Had  stooped  to  wed  a  low-born  bride, 
A  stain  upon  his  fame. 
Some  said  'twas  false  ;  there  could  not  be 
Such  blot  on  his  nobility  : 
But  others  vowed  that  they  had  heard 
The  actual  story  word  for  word, 
From  one  who  well  my  lady  knew, 
And  had  declared  the  story  true. 

In  a  far  village,  little  known, 
She  dwelt — so  ran  the  tale — alone. 
A  widowed  bride,  yet,  oh !  so  bright, 
Shone  through  the  mist  of  grief,  her  charms  ; 
They  said  it  was  the  loveliest  sight — 
She  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 
The  Earl,  one  summer  morning,  rode 
iJ    the  sea-shore  where  she  abode ; 


120  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

Again  he  came — that  vision  sweet 

Drew  him  reluctant  to  her  feet. 

Fierce  must  the  struggle  in  his  heart 

Have  been,  between  his  love  and  pride, 

Until  he  chose  that  wondrous  part, 

To  ask  her  to  become  his  bride. 

Yet,  ere  his  noble  name  she  bore, 

He  made  her  vow  that  nevermore 

She  would  behold  her  child  again, 

But  hide  his  name  and  hers  from  men. 

The  trembling  promise  duly  spoken, 

All  links  of  the  low  past  were  broken  ; 

And  she  arose  to  take  her  stand 

Amid  the  nobles  of  the  land. 

Then  all  would  wonder — could  it  be 

That  one  so  lowly  born  as  she, 

Raised  to  such  height  of  bliss,  should  seem 

Still  living  in  some  weary  dream? 

'Tis  true  she  bore  with  calmest  grace 

The  honors  of  her  lofty  place, 

Yet  never  smiled,  in  peace  or  joy, 

Not  even  to  greet  her  princely  boy. 

She  heard,  with  face  of  white  despair, 

The  cannon  thunder  through  the  air, 

That  she  had  given  the  Earl  an  heir. 

Nay,  even  more,  (they  whispered  low, 

As  if  they  scarce  durst  fancy  so,) 

That,  through  her  lofty  wedded  life, 

No  word,  no  tone,  betrayed  the  wife. 

Her  look  seemed  ever  in  the  past ; 

Never  to  him  it  grew  more  sweet ; 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

The  self-same  weary  glance  she  cast 
Upon  the  greyhound  at  her  feet, 
As  upon  him,  who  bade  her  claim 
The  crowning  honor  of  his  name. 

This  gossip,  if  old  Walter  heard, 
He  checked  it  with  a  scornful  word : 
I  never  durst  such  tales  repeat ; 
He  was  too  serious  and  discreet 
To  speak  of  what  his  lord  might  do ; 
Besides,  he  loved  my  lady  too. 
And  many  a  time,  I  recollect, 
They  were  together  in  the  wood ; 
He,  with  an  air  of  grave  respect, 
And  earnest  look,  uncovered  stood. 
And  though  their  speech  I  never  heard, 
(Save  now  and  then  a  louder  word,) 
I  saw  he  spake  as  none  but  one 
She  loved  and  trusted  durst  have  done ; 
For  oft  I  watched  them  in  the  shade 
That  the  close  forest  branches  made, 
Till  slanting  golden  sunbeams  came 
And  smote  the  fir-trees  into  flame, 
A  radiant  glory  round  her  lit, 
Then  down  her  white  robes  seemed  to  flit, 
Gilding  the  brown  leaves  on  the  ground, 
And  all  the  waving  ferns  around. 
While  by  some  gloomy  pine  she  leant 
And  he  in  earnest  talk  would  stand, 
I  saw  the  tear-drops,  as  she  bent, 
Fall  on  the  flowers  in  her  hand. — 


122  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

Strange  as  it  seemed  and  seems  to  be, 
That  one  so  sad,  so  cold  as  she, 
Could  love  a  little  child  like  me. 

Yet  so  it  was.     I  never  heard 

Such  tender  words  as  she  would  say, 

And  murmurs,  sweeter  than  a  word, 

Would  breathe  upon  me  as  I  lay 

While  I,  in  smiling  joy,  would  rest, 

For  hours,  my  head  upon  her  breast. 

Our  neighbors  said  that  none  could  see 

In  me  the  common  childish  charms, 

(So  grave  and  still  I  used  to  be,) 

And  yet  she  held  me  in  her  arms, 

In  a  fond  clasp,  so  close,  so  tight, 

I  often  dreamed  of  it  at  night. 

She  bade  me  tell  her  all, — no  other 

My  childish  thoughts  e'er  cared  to  know  : 

For  I — I  never  knew  my  mother ; 

I  was  an  orphan  long  ago. 

And  I  could  all  my  fancies  pour, 

That  gentle,  loving  face  before. 

She  liked  to  hear  me  tell  her  all ; 

How  that  day  I  had  climbed  the  tree, 

To  make  the  largest  fir-cones  fall ; 

And  how  one  day  I  hoped  to  be 

A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea, — 

She  loved  to  hear  it  all ! 

Then  wondrous  things  she  used  to  tell 
Of  the  strange  dreams  that  she  had  known. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY.  133 

I  used  to  love  to  hear  them  well, 

If  only  for  her  sweet  low  tone, 

Sometimes  so  sad,  although  I  knew 

That  such  things  never  could  be  true. 

One  day  she  told  me  sucli  a  tale 

It  made  me  grow  all  cold  and  pale, 

The  fearful  thing  she  told  ! 

Of  a  poor  woman  mad  and  wild 

Who  coined  the  life-blood  of  her  child, 

And,  tempted  by  a  fiend,  had  sold 

The  heart  out  of  her  breast  for  gold. 

But  when  she  saw  me  frightened  seem, 

She  smiled,  and  said  it  was  a  dream. 

When  I  look  back  and  think  of  her, 

My  very  heart-strings  seem  to  stir ; 

How  kind,  how  fair  she  was,  how  good, 

I  cannot  tell  you.     If  I  could, 

You  too,  would  love  her.     The  mere  thought 

Of  her  great  love  for  me  has  brought 

Tears  in  my  own  eyes :  though  far  away, 

It  seems  as  it  were  yesterday. 

And  just  as  when  I  look  on  high, 

Through  the  blue  silence  of  the  sky, 

Fresh  stars  shine  out,  and  more  and  more, 

Where  I  could  see  so  few  before  ; 

So,  the  more  steadily  I  gaze 

Upon  those  far  off  misty  days, 

Fresh  words,  fresh  tones,  fresh  memories  start 

Before  my  eyes  and  in  my  heart. 

I  can  remember  how  one  day 

(Talking  in  silly  childish  way) 


124  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

I  said  how  happy  I  should  be 
If  I  were  like  her  son, — as  fair, 
With  just  such  bright  blue  eyes  as  he, 
And  such  long  locks  of  golden  hair. 
A  strange  smile  on  her  pale  face  broke, 
And  in  strange,  solemn  words  she  spoke: 

"  My  own,  my  darling  one, — no,  no  ! 
I  love  you,  far,  far  better  so. 
I  would  not  change  the  look  you  bear, 
Or  one  wave  of  your  dark  brown  hair. 
The  mere  glance  of  your  sunny  eyes, 
Deep  in  the  deepest  soul  I  prize 
Above  that  baby  fair  ! 
Not  one  of  all  the  Earl's  proud  line 
In  beauty  ever  matched  with  thine ; 
And,  'tis  by  thy  dark  locks  thou  art 
Bound  even  faster  round  my  heart, 
And  made  more  wholly  mine  ! " 
And  then  she  paused,  and  weeping  said, 
"  You  are  like  one  who  now  is  dead, — 
Who  sleeps  in  a  far-distant  grave. 
O,  may  God  grant  that  you  may  be 
As  noble  and  as  good  as  he, 
As  gentle  and  as  brave  !  " 
Then  in  my  childish  way  I  cried, 
*'  The  one  you  tell  me  of  who  died, 
Was  he  as  noble  as  the  Earl  ?  " 
I  see  her  red  lips  scornful  curl, 
I  feel  her  hold  my  hand  again, 
So  tightly,  that  I  shrink  in  pain, — 


THE  SAILOR  BOY.  125 

I  seem  to  hear  her  say, 

"  He  whom  I  tell  you  of,  who  died, 

He  was  so  noble  and  so  gay, 

So  generous  and  so  brave, 

That  the  proud  Earl  by  his  dear  side 

Would  look  a  craven  slave." 

She  paused  ;  then,  with  a  quivering  sigh, 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  brow  : 

"  Live  like  him,  darling,  and  so  die. 

Remember  that  he  tells  you  now, 

True  peace,  real  honor,  and  content, 

In  cheerful,  pious  toil  abide ; 

That  gold  and  splendor  are  but  sent 

To  curse  our  vanity  and  pride." 

One  day  some  childish  fever  pain 
Burnt  in  my  veins  and  fired  my  brain. 
Moaning,  I  turned  from  side  to  side ; 
And,  sobbing  in  my  bed,  I  cried, 
Till  night  in  calm  arid  darkness  crept 
Around  me,  and  at  last  I  slept. 
When  suddenly  I  woke  to  see 
The  Lady  bending  over  me. 
The  drops  of  cold  November  rain 
Were  falling  from  her  long,  damp  hair ; 
Her  anxious  eyes  were  dim  with  pain ; 
Yet  she  looked  wondrous  fair. 
Arrayed  for  some  great  feast  she  came, 
With  stones  that  shone  and  burnt  like  flame ; 
Wound  round  her  neck,  like  some  bright  snake 
And  set  like  stars  within  her  hair, 


126  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

They  sparkled  so,  they  seemed  to  make 

A  glory  everywhere. 

I  felt  her  tears  upon  my  face, 

Her  kisses  on  my  eyes ; 

And  a  strange  thought  I  could  not  trace 

I  felt  within  my  heart  arise  ; 

And,  half  in  feverish  pain,  I  said  : 

*'  O  if  my  mother  were  not  dead  ! " 

And  Walter  bade  me  sleep ;  but  she 

Said,  "  Is  it  not  the  same  to  thee 

That  I  watch  by  thy  bed?" 

I  answered  her,  "  I  love  you,  too ; 

But  it  can  never  be  the  same ; 

She  was  no  Countess  like  to  you, 

Nor  wore  such  sparkling  stones  of  flame." 

0  the  wild  look  of  fear  and  dread  ! 
The  cry  she  gave  of  bitter  woe ! 

1  often  wonder  what  I  said 

To  make  her  moan  and  shudder  so. 
Through  the  long  night  she  tended  me 
With  such  sweet  care  and  charity. 
But  I  should  weary  you  to  tell 
All  that  I  know  and  love  so  well : 
Yet  one  night  more  stands  out  alone 
With  a  sad  sweetness  all  its  own. 


The  wind  blew  loud  that  dreary  night : 
Its  wailing  voice  I  well  remember ; 
The  stars  shone  out  so  large  and  bright 
Upon  the  frosty  fir-boughs  white, 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

That  dreary  night  of  cold  December. 

I  saw  old  Walter  silent  stand, 

Watching  the  soft,  white  flakes  of  snow 

With  looks  I  could  not  understand, 

Of  strange  perplexity  and  woe. 

At  last  he  turned  and  took  my  hand, 

And  said  the  Countess  just  had  sent 

To  bid  us  come  ;  for  she  would  fain 

See  me  once  more  before  she  went 

Away — never  to  come  again. 

We  came  in  silence  through  the  wood 

(Our  footfall  was  the  only  sound) 

To  where  the  great  white,  castle  stood, 

With  darkness  shadowing  it  around. 

Breathless,  we  trod  with  cautious  care 

Up  the  great  echoing  marble  stair ; 

Trembling,  by  Walter's  hand  I  held, 

Scared  by  the  splendors  I  beheld : 

Now  thinking,  "  Should  the  Earl  appear  !  " 

Now  looking  up  with  giddy  fear 

To  the  dim,  vaulted  roof  that  spread 

Its  gloomy  arches  overhead. 

Lon^  corridors  we  softly  passed, 

(My  heart  was  beating  loud  and  fast,) 

And  reached  the  Lady's  room  at  last : 

A  strange,  faint  odor  seemed  to  weigh 

Upon  the  dim  and  darkened  air ; 

One  shaded  lamp,  with  softened  ray, 

Scarce  showed  the  gloomy  splendor  there. 

The  dull  red  brands  were  burning  low, 

And  yet  a  fitful  gleam  of  light 


128  THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

Would  now  and  then,  with  sudden  glow, 

Start  forth,  then  sink  again  in  night. 

I  gazed  around,  yet  half  in  fear, 

Till  Walter  told  me  to  draw  near : 

And  in  the  strange  and  flickering  light, 

Towards  the  Lady's  bed  I  crept; 

All  folded  round  with  snowy  white, 

She  lay ;  (one  would  have  said  she  slept ;) 

So  still  the  look  of  that  white  face, 

It  seemed  as  it  were  carved  in  stone, 

I  paused  before  I  dared  to  place 

Within  her  cold  white  hand  my  own. 

But,  with  a  smile  of  sweet  surprise, 

She  turned  to  me  her  dreamy  eyes  ; 

And  slowly,  as  if  life  were  pain, 

She  drew  me  in  her  arms  to  lie  : 

She  strove  to  speak,  but  strove  in  vain  ; 

Each  breath  was  like  a  long  drawn  sigh. 

The  throbs  that  seemed  to  shake  her  breast, 

The  trembling  clasp  so  loose  and  weak, 

At  last  grew  calmer,  and  at  rest ; 

And  then  she  strove  once  more  to  speak: 

"  My  God,  I  thank  thee,  that  my  pain 

Of  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

Has  not  been  suffered  all  in  vain, 

And  I  may  die  while  he  is  near. 

I  will  not  fear  but  that  Thy  grace 

Has  swept  away  my  sin  and  woe, 

And  sent  this  little  angel  face, 

In  my  last  hour,  to  tell  me  so." 

(And  here  her  voice  grew  faint  and  low,) 


THE  SAILOR  BOY.  199 

"  My  child,  where'er  thy  life  may  go, 
To  know  that  thou  art  brave  and  true, 
Will  pierce  the  highest  heavens  through, 
And  even  there  my  soul  shall  be 
More  joyful  for  his  thought  of  thee." 
She  folded  her  white  hands,  and  stayed , 
All  cold  and  silently  she  lay : 
I  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  prayed 
The  prayer  she  used  to  make  me  say. 
I  said  it  many  times,  and  then 
She  did  not  move,  but  seemed  to  be 
In  a  deep  sleep,  nor  stirred  again. 
No  sound  woke  in  the  silent  room, 
Or  broke  the  dim  and  solemn  gloom, 
Save  when  the  brands  that  burnt  so  low 
With  noisy,  fitful  gleam  of  light, 
Would  spread  around  a  sudden  glow, 
Then  sink  in  silence  then  in  night. 
How  long  I  stood  I  do  not  know : 
At  last  poor  Walter  came,  and  said 
(So  sadly)  that  we  now  must  go, 
And  whispered,  she  we  loved  was  dead. 
He  bade  me  kiss  her  face  once  more, 
Then  led  me  sobbing  to  the  door. 
I  scarcely  knew  what  dying  meant, 
Yet  a  strange  grief,  before  unknown, 
Weighed  on  my  spirit  as  we  went 
And  left  her  tying  all  alone. 

We  went  to  the  far  North  once  more, 
To  seek  the  well-remembered  home 


130  A  CROWN  OF  SORROW. 

Where  my  poor  kinsman  dwelt  before, 
Whence  now  he  was  too  old  to  roam ; 
And  there  six  happy  years  we  past, 
Happy  and  peaceful  to  the  last ; 
When  poor  old  Walter  died,  and  he 
Blessed  me  and  said  I  now  might  be 
A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea. 
And  so  I  go  ;  and  yet  in  spite 
Of  all  the  joys  I  long  to  know, 
Though  I  look  onward  with  delight, 
With  something  of  regret  I  go ; 
And  young  or  old,  on  land  or  sea, 
One  guiding  memory  I  shall  take, — 
Of  what  She  prayed  that  I  might  be, 
And  what  I  will  be  for  her  sake  ! 


A  CROWN  OF  SORROW. 

A  SORROW,  wet  with  early  tears 

Yet  bitter,  had  been  long  with  me. 
I  wearied  of  this  weight  of  years, 
And  would  be  free. 

I  tore  my  Sorrow  from  my  heart, 

I  cast  it  far  away  in  scorn  ; 
Right  joyful  that  we  two  could  part, 
Yet  most  forlorn. 

I  sought  (to  take  my  Sorrow's  place) 
Over  the  world  for  flower  or  gem; 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAR. 

But  she  had  had  an  ancient  grace 
Unknown  to  them. 


I  took  once  more  with  strange  delight 

My  slighted  Sorrow  ;  proudly  now 
I  wear  it,  set  with  stars  of  light, 
Upon  my  brow. 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAR. 

1855. 

THE  feast  is  spread  through  England 

For  rich  and  poor  to-day  : 
Greetings  and  laughter  may  be  there, 

But  thoughts  are  far  away  ; 
Over  the  stormy  ocean, 

Over  the  dreary  track, 
Where  some  are  gone,  whom  England 

Will  never  welcome  back. 

Breathless  she  waits,  and  listens 

.  For  every  eastern  breeze 
That  bears  upon  its  bloody  wings 

News  from  beyond  the  seas. 
The  leafless  branches  stirring 

Make  many  a  watcher  start ; 
The  distant  tramp  of  steed  may  send 

A  throb  from  heart  to  heart. 


132  THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAR. 

The  rulers  of  the  nation, 

The  poor  ones  at  their  gate, 
With  the  same  eager  wonder 

The  same  great  news  await. 
The  poor  man's  stay  and  comfort, 

The  rich  man's  joy  and  pride, 
Upon  the  bleak  Crimean  shore 

Are  fighting  side  by  side. 

The  bullet  comes — and  either 

A  desolate  hearth  may  see"; 
And  God  alone  to-night  knows  where 

The  vacant  place  may  be  ! 
The  dread  that  stirs  the  peasant 

Thrills  nobles'  hearts  with  fear ; 
Yet  above  selfish  sorrow 

Both  hold  their  country  dear. 

The  rich  man  who  reposes 

In  his  ancestral  shade, 
The  peasant  at  his  ploughshare, 

The  worker  at  his  trade, 
Each  one  his  all  has  perilled, 

Each  has  the  same  great  stake, 
Each  soul  can  but  have  patience, 

Each  heart  can  only  break  ! 

Hushed  is  all  party  clamor ; 

One  thought  in  every  heart, 
One  dread  in  every  household, 

Has  bid  such  strife  depart. 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS.  ^33 

England  has  called  her  children  ; 

Long  silent — the  word  came 
That  lit  the  smouldering  ashes 

Through  all  the  land  to  flame. 

O  you  who  toil  and  suffer, 

You  gladly  heard  the  call ; 
But  those  you  sometimes  envy, 

Have  they  not  given  their  all  ? 
O  you  who  rule  the  nation, 

Take  now  the  toil-worn  hand : 
Brothers  you  are  in  sorrow, 

In  duty  to  your  land. 

Learn  but  this  noble  lesson 
Ere  Peace  returns  again, 
And  the  life-blood  of  Old  England 
Will  not  be  shed  in  vain. 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 

1855. 

LAST  night,  when  weary  silence  fell  on  all, 
And  starless  skies  arose  so  dim  and  vast, 
I  heard  the  Spirit  of  the  Present  call 

Upon  the  sleeping  Spirit  of  the  Past. 
Far  off  and  near,  I  saw  their  radiance  shine, 
And  listened  while  they  spoke  of  deeds  divine, 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

My  deeds  are  writ  in  iron  ; 

My  glory  stands  alone ; 
A  veil  of  shadowy  honor 

Upon  my  tombs  is  thrown ; 
The  great  names  of  my  heroes 

Like  gems  in  history  lie ; 
To  live  they  deemed  ignoble, 

Had  they  the  chance  to  die ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

My  children,  too,  are  honored  ; 

Dear  shall  their  memory  be 
To  the  proud  lands  that  own  them  ; 

Dearer  than  thine  to  thee  ; 
For,  though  they  hold  that  sacred 

Is  God's  great  gift  of  life, 
At  the  first  call  of  duty 

They  rush  into  the  strife  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

Then,  with  all  valiant  precepts 

Woman's  soft  heart  was  fraught ; 
"  Death,  not  dishonor,**  echoed 

The  war-cry  she  had  taught. 
Fearless  and  glad,  those  mothers, 

At  bloody  deaths  elate, 
Cried  out  they  bore  their  children 

Only  for  such  a  fate ! 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

Though  such  stern  laws  of  honor 

Are  faded  now  away, 
Yet  many  a  mourning  mother, 

With  nobler  grief  than  they, 
Bows  down  in  sad  submission  : 

The  heroes  of  the  fight 
Learnt  at  her  knee  the  lesson, 

"  For  God  and  for  the  Right ! " 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

No  voice  there  spake  of  sorrow : 

They  saw  the  noblest  fall 
With  no  repining  murmur ; 

Stern  Fate  was  lord  of  all. 
And  when  the  loved  ones  perished, 

One  cry  alone  arose, 
Waking  the  startled  echoes, 

"  Vengeance  upon  our  foes !  " 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

Grief  dwells  in  France  and  England 

For  many  a  noble  son  ; 
Yet  louder  than  the  sorrow, 

"  Thy  will,  O  God,  be  done  ! " 
From  desolate  homes  is  rising 

One  prayer, — "  Let  carnage  cease ! 
On  friends  and  foes  have  mercy, 

O  Lord,  and  give  us  peace !  " 


136  THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

Then,  every  hearth  was  honored 

That  sent  its  children  forth, 
To  spread  their  country's  glory, 

And  gain  her  south  or  north. 
Then,  little  recked  they  numbers, 

No  band  would  ever  fly, 
But  stern  and  resolute  they  stood 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

And  now  from  France  and  England 

Their  dearest  and  their  best 
Go  forth  to  succor  freedom, 

To  help  the  much  oppressed ; 
Now,  let  the  far-off  Future 

And  Past  bow  down  to-day, 
Before  the  few  young  hearts  that  hold 

Whole  armaments  at  bay. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

Then,  each  one  strove  for  honor, 

Each  for  a  deathless  name  ; 
Love,  home,  rest,  joy,  were  offered 

As  sacrifice  to  Fame. 
They  longed  that  in  far  ages 

Their  deeds  might  still  be  told, 
And  distant  times  and  nations 

Their  names  in  honor  hold. 


A  LITTLE  LONGER. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 
Though  nursed  by  such  old  legends, 

Our  heroes  of  to-day 
Go  cheerfully  to  battle 

As  children  go  to  play ; 
They  gaze  with  awe  and  wonder 

On  your  great  names  of  pride, 
Unconscious  that  their  own  will  shim 

In  glory  side  by  side  ! 

Day  dawned  ;  and  as  the  Spirits  passed  away, 
Methought  I  saw,  in  the  dim  morning  gray, 
The  Past's  bright  diadem  had  paled  before 
The  starry  crown  the  glorious  Present  wore. 


A  LITTLE  LONGER. 
i 

A  LITTLE  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 
Shall  violets  bloom  for  thee,  and  sweet  birds  sing ; 
And  the  lime-branches,  where  soft  winds  are  blowing, 
Shall  murmur  the  sweet  promise  of  the  Spring ! 

A  little  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  quiet  of  the  morn  ; 
While  tender  grasses  and  awakening  flowers 
Send  up  a  golden  mist  to  greet  the  dawn  ! 

A  little  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 
The  tenderness  of  twilight  shall  be  thine, 
The  rosy  clouds  that  float  o'er  dying  daylight, 
Nor  fade  till  trembling  stars  begin  to  shine. 


138  A  LITTLE  LONGER. 

A  little  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 

Shall  starry  night  be  beautiful  for  thee  ; 

And  the    cold  moon   shall    look   through   the  blue 

silence, 
Flooding  her  silver  path  upon  the  sea. 

A  little  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 
Life  shall  be  thine  ;  life  with  its  power  to  will, 
Life  with  its  strength  to  bear,  to  love,  to  conquer, 
Bringing  its  thousand  joys  thy  heart  to  fill. 

A  little  longer  yet — a  little  longer, 

The  voices  thou  hast  loved  shall  charm  thine  ear  ; 

And  thy  true  heart,  that  now  beats  quick  to  hear 

them 
A  little  longer  yet  shall  hold  them  dear. 

A  little  longer  yet — joy  while  thou  mayest ; 
Love  and  rejoice  !  for  time  has  naught  in  store  : 
And  soon  the  darkness  of  the  grave  shall  bid  thee 
Love  and  rejoice  and  feel  and  know  no  more. 


A  little  longer  still — Patience,  Belove'd : 

A  little  longer  still,  ere  Heaven  unroll 

The  Glory  and  the  Brightness,  and  the  Wonder, 

Eternal,  and  divine,  that  waits  thy  Soul ! 

A  little  longer  ere  Life  true,  immortal, 

(Not  this  our  shadowy  Life,)  will  be  thine  own ; 

And   thou  shalt  stand   where   winged   Archangels 

worship, 
And  trembling  bow  before  the  Great  White  Throne. 


GRIEF. 


139 


A  little  longer  still,  and  Heaven  awaits  thee, 
And  fills  thy  spirit  with  a  great  delight ; 
Then  our  pale  joys  will  seem  a  dream  forgotten, 
Our  Sun  a  darkness,  and  our  Day  a  Night. 

A  little  longer,  and  thy  Heart,  Beloved, 

Shall  beat  forever  with  a  Love  divine  ; 

And  joy  so  pure,  so  mighty,  so  eternal, 

No  creature  knows  and  lives,  will  then  be  thine. 

A  little  longer  yet — and  angel  voices 
Shall  ring  in  heavenly  chant  upon  thine  ear ; 
Angels  and  Saints  await  thee,  and  God  needs  thee : 
Beloved,  can  we  bid  thee  linger  here ! 


GRIEF. 

AN  ancient  enemy  have  I, 
And  either  he  or  I  must  die  ; 
For  he  never  leaveth  me, 
Never  gives  my  soul  relief, 
Never  lets  my  sorrow  cease, 
Never  gives  my  spirit  peace, — 
For  mine  enemy  is  Grief ! 
Pale  he  is,  and  sad  and  stern ; 
And  whene'er  he  cometh  nigh, 
Blue  and  dim  the  torches  burn, 
Pale  and  shrunk  the  roses  turn  ; 
While  my  heart  that  he  has  pierced 
Many  a  time  with  fiery  lance, 
Beats  and  trembles  at  his  glance : 


140  GRIEF. 

Clad  in  burning  steel  is  he, 
All  my  strength  he  can  defy ;  • 
For  he  never  leaveth  me — 
And  one  of  us  must  die  ! 

I  have  said,  "  Let  ancient  sages 
Charm  me  from  my  thoughts  of  pain  !  " 
So  I  read  their  deepest  pages, 
And  I  strove  to  think — in  vain  ! 
Wisdom's  cold,  calm  words  I  tried, 
But  he  was  seated  by  my  side ; — 
Learning  I  have  won  in  vain  ; 
She  cannot  rid  me  of  my  pain. 

When  at  last  soft  sleep  comes  o'er  me, 
A  cold  hand  is  on  my  heart ; 
Stern  sad  eyes  are  there  before  me ; 
Not  in  dreams  will  he  depart : 
And  when  the  same  dreary  vision 
From  my  weary  brain  has  fled, 
Daylight  brings  the  living  phantom, 
He  is  seated  by  my  bed, 
Bending  o'er  me  all  the  while, 
With  his  cruel,  bitter  smile, 
Ever  with  me,  ever  nigh ; — 
And  either  he  or  I  must  die  ! 

Then  I  said,  long  time  ago, 
"  I  will  flee  to  other  climes, 
I  will  leave  mine  ancient  foe ! " 
Though  I  wandered  far  and  wide — 
Still  he  followed  at  my  side. 


GRIEF. 

And  I  fled  where  the  blue  waters 
Bathe  the  sunny  isles  of  Greece  ; 
Where  Thessalian  mountains  rise 
Up  against  the  purple  skies ; 
Where  a  haunting  memory  liveth 
In  each  wood  and  cave  and  rill ; 
But  no  dream  of  gods  could  help  me, — 
He  went  with  me  still ! 

I  have  been  where  Nile's  broad  river 
Flows  upon  the  burning  sand  ; 
Where  the  desert  monster  broodeth, 
Where  the  Eastern  palm-trees  stand ; 
I  have  been  where  pathless  forests 
Spread  a  black  eternal  shade  ; 
Where  the  lurking  panther  hiding 
Glares  from  every  tangled  glade  ; 
But  in  vain  I  wandered  wide, 
He  was  always  by  my  side  ! 

Then  I  fled  where  snows  eternal 
Cold  and  dreary  ever  lie  ; 
Where  the  rosy  lightnings  gleam, 
Flashing  through  the  northern  sky ; 
Where  the  red  sun  turns  again 
Back  upon  his  path  of  pain  ; — 
But  a  shadowy  form  was  with  me, — 
I  had  fled  in  vain  ! 

I  have  thought,  "  If  I  can  gaze 
Sternly  on  him  he  will  fade, 


142  GRIEF. 

For  I  know  that  lie  is  nothing 
But  a  dim  ideal  shade." 
As  I  gazed  at  him  the  more, 
He  grew  stronger  than  before  I 
Then  I  said,  "  Mine  arm  is  strong, 
I  will  make  him  turn  and  flee ; " 
I  have  struggled  with  him  long — 
But  that  could  never  be ! 

Once  I  battled  with  him  so 
That  I  thought  I  laid  him  low ; 
Then  in  trembling  joy  I  fled, 
While  again  and  still  again 
Murmuring  to  myself  I  said, 
"  Mine  old  enemy  is  dead  ! " 
And  I  stood  beneath  the  stars, 
When  a  child  came  on  my  frame, 
And  a  fear  I  could  not  name, 
And  a  sense  of  quick  despair, 
And,  lo! — mine  enemy  was  there! 

Listen,  for  my  soul  is  weary, 

Weary  of  its  endless  woe ; 

I  have  called  on  one  to  aid  me 

Mightier  even  than  my  foe. 

Strength  and  hope  fail  day  by  day ; 

I  shall  cheat  him  of  his  prey ; 

Some  day  soon,  I  know  not  when, 

He  will  stab  me  through  and  through; 

He  has  wounded  me  before, 

But  my  heart  can  bear  no  more ; 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME. 

Pray  that  hour  may  come  to  me, 
Only  then  shall  I  be  free ; 
Death  alone  has  strength  to  take  me 
Where  my  foe  can  never  be  ; 
Death,  and  Death  alone,  has  power 
To  conquer  mine  old  enemy ! 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME. 

THE  tender,  delicate  Flowers, 
I  saw  them  fanned  by  a  warm  western  wind 

Fed  by  soft  summer  showers, 
Shielded  by  care,  and  yet,  (O  Fate  unkind !) 

Fade  in  a  few  short  hours. 

The  gentle  and  the  gay, 
Rich  in  a  glorious  Future  of  bright  deeds, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day, 
Are  met  by  Death,  who  sternly,  sadly  leads 

Them  far  away. 

And  Hopes,  perfumed  and  bright, 
So  lately  shining,  wet  with  dew  and  tears, 

Trembling  in  morning  light ; 
I  saw  them  change  to  dark  and  anxious  fears 

Before  the  night ! 

I  wept  that  all  must  die  : 

"Yet  Love,"    I    cried,    "doth    live,    and   conquer 
death—" 


144  A  PARTING. 

And  time  passed  by, 

And  breathed  on  Love,  an    killed  it  with  his  breath 
Ere  death  was  nigh. 

More  bitter  far  than  all 
It  was  to  know  that  Love  could  change  and  die  ! — 

Hush  !  for  the  ages  call, 
"  The  Love  of  God  lives  through  eternity, 

And  conquers  all ! " 


A    PARTING. 

WITHOUT  one  bitter  feeling  let  us  part, — 

And  for  the  years  in  which  your  love  has  shed 
A  radiance  like  a  glory  round  my  head, 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart. 

I  thank  you  for  the  cherished  hope  of  years, 
A  starry  future,  dim  and  yet  divine, 
Winging  its  way  from  Heaven  to  be  mine, 

Laden  with  joy,  and  ignorant  of  tears. 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you  even  more 

That  my  heart  learnt  not  without  love  to  live, 
But  gave  and  gave,  and  still  had  more  to  give, 

From  an  abundant  and  exhaustless  store. 

I  thank  you,  and  no  grief  is  in  these  tears ; 
I  thank  you,  not  in  bitterness  but  truth, 
For  the  fair  vision  that  adorned  my  youth 

And  glorified  so  many  happy  years. 


A  PARTING. 

Yet  how  much  more  I  thank  you  that  you  tore 
At  length  the  veil  your  hand  had  woven  away, 
Which  hid  my  idol  was  a  thing  of  clay, 

And  false  the  altar  I  had  knelt  before. 

I  thank  you  that  you  taught  me  the  stern  truth, 
(None  other  could  have  told  and  I  believed,) 
That  vain  had  been  my  life,  and  I  deceived, 

And  wasted  all  the  purpose  of  my  youth. 

I  thank  you  that  your  hand  dashed  down  the  shrine, 
.  Wherein  my  idol  worship  I  had  paid ; 

Else  had  I  never  known  a  soul  was  made 
To  serve  and  Worship  only  the  Divine. 

I  thank  you  that  the  heart  I  cast  away 

On   such   as    you,   though    broken,  bruised,  and 
crushed, 

Now  that  its  fiery  throbbing  is  all  hushed, 
Upon  a  worthier  altar  I  can  lay. 

I  thank  you  for  the  lessons  that  such  love 

Is  a  perverting  of  God's  royal  right, 

That  it  is  made  but  for  the  Infinite, 
And  all  too  great  to  live  except  above. 

I  thank  you  for  a  terrible  awaking, 

And  if  reproach  seemed  hidden  in  my  pain, 
And  sorrow  seemed  to  cry  on  your  disdain, 

Know  that  my  blessing  lay  in  your  forsaking. 

—     10 


J46  THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 

Farewell  forever  now :  in  peace  we  part ; 
And  should  an  idle  vision  of  my  tears 
Arise  before  your  soul  in  after  years, 

Remember  that  I  thank  you  from  my  heart ! 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 

DIM  shadows  gather  thickly  round,  and  up  the  misty 

stair  they  climb, 
The  cloudy  stair  that  upward  leads  to    where  the 

closed  portals  shine, 
Round  which  the  kneeling  spirits  wait  the   opening 

of  the  Golden  Gate. 


And  some  with  eager  longing  go,  still  pressing  for- 
ward, hand  in  hand, 

.and  some  with  weary  step,  and  slow,  look  back 
where  their  Beloved  stand  : 

Yet  up  the  misty  stair  they  climb,  led  onward  by  the 
Angel  Time. 

As  unseen  hands  roll  back  the  doors,  the  light  that 

floods  the  very  air 
Is  but  the  shadow  from  within,  of  the  great  glory 

hidden  there : 
And  morn  and  eve,  and  soon  and  late,  the  shadows 

pass  within  the  gate. 


PHANTOMS. 

As  one  by  one  they  enter  in,  and  the  stern   portals 

close  once  more, 
The  halo  seems  to  linger  round  those  kneeling  closest 

to  the  door : 
The  joy  that  lightened  from  that  place   shines  still 

upon  the  watcher's  face. 

The  faint  low  echo  that  we  hear  of  far-off  music  seems 

to  fill 
The  silent  air  with  love  and  fear,  and  the  world's 

clamors  all  grow  still, 
Until  the  portals  close  again,  and  leave  us  toiling  on 

in  pain. 

Complain  not  that  the  way  is  long:  what  road  is 

weary  that  leads  there  ? 
But  let  the  angel  take  thy  hand,  And  lead  thee  up  the 

misty  stair, 
And  then  with  beating  heart  await  the  opening  of 

the  Golden  Gate. 


PHANTOMS. 

BACK,  ye  Phantoms  of  the  Past, 
In  your  dreary  caves  remain : 

What  have  I  to  do  with  memories 
Of  a  long-forgotten  pain  ? 

For  my  Present  is  all  peaceful, 
And  my  Future  nobly  planned  : 


148  PHANTOMS. 

Long  ago  Time's  mighty  billows 
Swept  your  footsteps  from  the  sand. 

Back  into  your  caves  ;  nor  haunt  me 
With  your  voices  full  of  woe  ; 

I  have  buried  grief  and  sorrow 
In  the  depths  ot  Long-ago. 

See  the  glorious  clouds  of  morning 
Roll  away,  and  clear  and  bright 

Shine  the  rays  of  cloudless  daylight : — 
Wherefore  will  ye  moan  of  night  ? 

Never  shall  my  heart  be  burdened 
With  its  ancient  woe  and  fears  ; 

I  can  drive  them  from  my  presence, 
I  can  check  these  foolish  tears. 

Back,  ye  Phantoms ;  leave,  O  leave  me, 

To  a  new  and  happy  lot ; 
Speak  no  more  of  things  departed ; 

Leave  me — for  I  know  ye  not. 

Can  it  be  that  'mid  my  gladness 
I  must  ever  hear  you  wail, 

Of  the  grief  that  wrung  my  spirit, 
And  that  made  my  cheek  so  pale  ? 

Joy  is  mine  ;  but  your  sad  voices 
Murmur  ever  in  mine  ear : 

Vain  is  all  the  Future's  promise, 
While  the  dreary  Past  is  here. 


THANKFULNESS.  149 

Vain,  O  worse  than  vain,  the  Visions 
That  my  heart,  my  life,  would  fill, 

If  the  Past's  relentless  phantoms 
Call  upon  me  still ! 


THANKFULNESS. 

MY  God,  I  thank  Thee  who  hast  made 

The  Earth  so  bright ; 
So  full  of  splendor  and  of  joy, 

Beauty  and  light ; 
So  many  glorious  things  are  here, 

Noble  and  right ! 

I  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou  hast  made 

Joy  to  abound ; 
So  many  gentle  thoughts  and  deeds 

Circling  us  round, 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  Earth 

Some  love  is  found. 

I  thank  Thee    more  that  all  our  joy 

Is  touched  with  pain ; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest  hours  ; 

That  thorns  remain ; 
So  that  Earth's  bliss  may  be  our  guide, 

And  not  our  chain. 

For  Thou  who  knowest,  Lord,  how  soon 
Our  weak  heart  clings, 


150  HOME -SICKNESS. 

Hast  given  us  joys,  tender  and  true, 

Yet  all  with  wings, 
So  that  we  see,  gleaming  on  high, 

Diviner  things ! 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  kept 

The  best  in  store  ; 
We  have  enough,  yet  not  too  much 

To  long  for  more  : 
A  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace, 

Not  known  before. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  here  our  souls, 

Though  amply  blest, 
Can  never  find,  although  they  seek, 

A  perfect  rest, — 
Nor  ever  shall,  until  they  lean 

On  Jesus'  breast ! 


HOME-SICKNESS. 

WHERE  I  am,  the  halls  are  gilded, 

Stored  with  pictures  bright  and  rare  ; 
Strains  of  deep  melodious  music 

Float  upon  the  perfumed  air : — 
Nothing  stirs  the  dreary  silence 

Save  the  melancholy  sea, 
Near  the  poor  and  humble  cottage, 

Where  I  fain  would  be ! 

Where  I  am,    the  sun  is  shining, 
And  the  purple  windows  glow, 


HOME-SICKNESS.  151 


Till  their  rich  armorial  shadows 
Stain  the  marble  floor  below  : — 

Faded  autumn  leaves  are  trembling 
On  the   withered  jasmine-tree, 

Creeping  round  the  little  casement, 
Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 


Where  I  am  the  days  are  passing 

O'er  a  pathway  strewn  with  flowers  ; 
Song  and  joy  and  starry  pleasures 

Crown  the  happy,  smiling  hours  : — 
Slowly,  heavily,  and  sadly, 

Time  with  weary  wings  must  fleet, 
Marked  by  pain,  and  toil,  and  sorrow, 

Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 


Where  I  am,  the  great  and  noble 

Tell  me  of  renown  and  fame, 
And  the  red  wine  sparkles  highest, 

To  do  honor  to  my  name  : — 
Far  away  a  place  is  vacant, 

By  a  humble  hearth,  for  me, 
Dying  embers  dimly  show  it, 

Where  I  fain  would  be ! 


Where  I  am  are  glorious  dreamings, 

Science,  genius,  art  divine  ; 
And  the  great  minds  whom  all  honor 

Interchange  their  thoughts  with  mine 


152  WISHES. 

A  few  simple  hearts  are  waiting, 
Longing,  wearying,  for  me, 

Far  away,  where  tears  are  falling, 
Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 

Where  I  am,  all  think  me  happy, 

For  so  well  I  play  my  part, 
None  can  guess,  who  smile  around  me, 

How  far  distant  is  my  heart, — 
Far  away,  in  a  poor  cottage, 

Listening  to  the  dreary  sea, 
Where  the  treasures  of  my  life  are, 

Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 


WISHES. 

ALL  the  fluttering  wishes 

Caged  within  thy  heart 
Beat  their  wings  against  it, 

Longing  to  depart, 
Till  they  shake  their  prison 

With  their  wounded  cry ; 
Open  wide  thy  heart  to-day, 

And  let  the  captives  fly. 

Let  them  first  fly  upward 
Through  the  starry  air, 

Till  you  almost  lose  them, 
For  their  home  is  there  ; 

Then,  with  outspread  pinions, 
Circling  round  and  round, 


WISHES.  153 

Wing  their  way  wherever 
Want  and  woe  are  found. 

Where  the  weary  stitcher 

Toils  for  daily  bread  ; 
Where  the  lonely  watcher 

Watches  by  her  dead  ; 
Where,  with  thin,  weak  fingers, 

Toiling  at  the  loom, 
Stand  the  little  children, 

Blighted  ere  they  bloom ; — 

Where,  by  darkness  blinded, 

Groping  for  the  light, 
With  distorted  conscience, 

Men  do  wrong  for  right ; 
Where,  in  the  cold  shadow, 

By  smooth  pleasure  thrown, 
Human  hearts  by  hundreds 

Harden  into  stone  ; — 

Where  on  dusty  highways, 

With  faint  heart  and  slow, 
Cursing  the  glad  sunlight, 

Hungry  outcasts  go ; 
Where  all  mirth  is  silenced 

And  the  hearth  is  chill, 
For  one  place  is  empty, 

And  one  voice  is  still. 

Some  hearts  will  be  lighter 
While  your  captives  roam 


1 54  THE  PEACE  OF  GOD. 

For  their  tender  singing, 
Then  recall  them  home  ; 

When  the  sunny  hours 
Into  night  depart, 

Softly  they  will  nestle 
In  a  quiet  heart. 


THE  PEACE  OF  GOD. 

WE  ask  for  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 

Thy  children  ask  Thy  Peace ; 
Not  what  the  world  calls  rest, 

That  toil  and  care  should  cease, 
That  through  bright  sunny  hours 

Calm  Life  should  fleet  away, 
And  tranquil  night  should  fade 

In  smiling  day ;  — 
It  is  not  for  such  Peace  that  we  would  piv.^ 

We  ask  for  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 

Yet  not  to  stand  secure, 
Girt  round  with  iron  Pride, 

Contented  to  endure : 
Crushing  the  gentle  strings 

That  human  hearts  should  know, 
Untouched  by  others'  joy 

Or  others'  woe ; — 
Thou,  O  dear  Lord,  wilt  never  teach  us  so. 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE.         155 

We  ask  Thy  Peace,  O  Lord ! 

Through  storm,  and  fear,  and  strife, 
To  light  and  guide  us  on, 

Through  a  long,  struggling  life  : 
While  no  success  or  gain 

Shall  cheer  the  desperate  fight, 
Or  nerve,  what  the  world  calls, 

Our  wasted  might :  — 
Yet  pressing  through  the  darkness  to  the  light. 

It  is  Thine  own,  O  Lord, 

Who  toil  while  others  sleep  ; 
Who  sow  with  loving  care 

What  other  hands  shall  reap  : 
They  lean  on  Thee  entranced, 

In  calm  and  perfect  rest : 
Give  us  that  Peace,  O  Lord, 

Divine  and  blest, 
Thou  keepest  for  those  hearts  who  love  Thee  best. 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

i. 

IP  the  dread  day  that  calls  thee  hence 
Through  a  red  mist  of  fear  should  loom, 
(Closing  in  deadliest  night  and  gloom 

Long  hours  of  aching,  dumb  suspense,) 
And  leave  me  to  my  lonely  doom, — 

I  think,  beloved,  I  could  see 

In  thy  dear  eyes  the  loving  light 


156        LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

Glaze  into  vacancy  and  night, 
And  still  say,  "  God  is  good  to  me  ; 
And  all  that  He  decrees  is  right." 

That,  watching  thy  slow  struggling  breath, 
And  answering  each  imperfect  sign, 
I  still  could  pray  thy  prayer  and  mine. 

And  tell  thee,  dear,  though  this  was  death, 
That  God  was  love,  and  love  divine. 

Could  hold  thee  in  my  arms,  and  lay 
Upon  my  heart  thy  weary  head, 
And  meet  thy  last  smile  ere  it  fled ; 

Then  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  one  say, 
"  Now  all  is  over, — she  is  dead." 

Could  smooth  thy  garments  with  fond  care, 
And  cross  thy  hands  upon  thy  breast, 
And  kiss  thine  eyelids  down  to  rest, 

And  yet  say  no  word  of  despair, 

But,  through  my  sobbing,  "  It  is  best." 

Could  stifle  down  the  gnawing  pain, 
And  say,  "  We  still  divide  our  life, 
She  has  the  rest,  and  I  the  strife, 

And  mine  the  loss,  and  hers  the  gain : 
My  ill  with  bliss  for  her  is  rife." 

Then  turn,  and  the  old  duties  take- 
Alone  now — yet  with  earnest  will 
Gathering  sweet,  sacred  traces  still 

To  help  me  on,  and,  for  thy  sake, 
My  heart  and  life  and  soul  to  fill. 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE.         157 

I  think  I  could  check  in  vain,  weak  tears, 
And  toil, — although  the  world's  great  space 
Held  nothing  but  one  vacant  place, 

And  see  the  dark  and  weary  years 
Lit  only  by  a  vanished  grace. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  day  was  o'er, 

Call  up  the  tender  past  again ; 

Its  painful  joy,  its  happy  pain, 
And  live  it  over  yet  once  more, 

And  say,  "  But  few  more  years  remain." 

And  then,  when  I  had  striven  my  best, 
And  all  around  would  smiling  say, 
"  See  how  Time  makes  all  grief  decay," 

Would  lie  down  thankfully  to  rest, 
And  seek  thee  in  eternal  day. 

n. 

But  if  the  day  should  ever  rise — 

It  could  not  and  it  cannot  be — 

Yet,  if  the  sun  should  ever  see, 
Looking  upon  us  from  his  skies, 

A  day  that  took  thy  heart  from  me ; 

If  loving  thee  still  more  and  more, 
And  still  so  willing  to  be  blind, 
I  should  the  bitter  knowledge  find, 

That  Time  had  eaten  out  the  core 
Of  love,  and  left  the  empty  rind ; 


158        LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

If  the  poor  lifeless  words,  at  last, 

(The  soul  gone,  that  was  once  so  sweet,) 
Should  cease  my  eager  heart  to  cheat, 

And  crumble  back  into  the  past, 
And  show  the  whole  a  vain  deceit ; 

If  I  should  see  thee  turn  away, 

And  know  that  prayer,  and  time,  and  pain, 
Could  no  more  thy  lost  love  regain, 

Than  bid  the  hours  of  dying  day 
Gleam  in  their  mid-day  noon  again ; 

If  I  should  loose  thy  hand,  and  know 
That  henceforth  we  must  dwell  apart, 
Since  I  had  seen  thy  love  depart, 

And  only  count  the  hours  flow 

By  the  dull  throbbing  of  my  heart ; 

If  I  should  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain 
Into  thine  eyes  so  deep  and  clear, 
And  read  the  truth  of  all  my  fear 

Half  mixed  with  pity  for  my  pain, 
And  sorrow  for  the  vanished  year ; 

If,  not  to  grieve  thee  overmuch, 
I  strove  to  counterfeit  disdain, 
And  weave  me  a  new  life  again, 

Which  thy  life  could  not  mar,  or  touch, 
And  so  smile  down  my  bitter  pain  ; — 

The  ghost  of  my  dead  Past  would  rise 
And  mock  me,  and  I  could  not  dare 


RECOLLECTIONS.  159 

Look  to  a  future  of  despair, 
Or  even  to  the  eternal  skies, 

For  I  should  still  be  lonely  there. 

All  Truth,  all  Honor,  then  would  seem 
Vain  clouds,  which  the  first  wind  blew  by ; 
All  Trust,  a  folly  doomed  to  die  ; 

All  Life,  a  useless,  empty  dream  ; 

All  Love — since  thine  had  failed — a  lie. 

But  see,  thy  tender  smile  has  cast 
My  fear  away :  this  thought  of  mine 
Is  treason  to  my  Love  and  thine ; 

For  Love  is  Life,  and  Death  at  last 
Crowns  it  eternal  and  divine  ! 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

As  strangers,  you  and  I  are  here ; 

We  both  as  aliens  stand 
Where  once,  in  years  gone  by,  I  dwelt 

No  stranger  in  the  land. 
Then  while  you  gaze  on  park  and  stream, 

Let  me  remain  apart, 
And  listen  to  the  awakened  sound 

Of  voices  in  my  heart. 

Here,  where  upon  the  velvet  lawn 

The  cedar  spreads  its  shade, 
And  by  the  flower-beds  all  around 

Bright  roses  bloom  and  fade, 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

Shrill  raerry  childish  laughter  rings, 

And  baby  voices  sweet, 
And  by  me,  on  the  path,  I  hear 

The  tread  of  little  feet. 

Down  the  dark  avenue  of  limes, 

Whose  perfume  loads  the  air, 
Whose  boughs  are  rustling  overhead, 

(For  the  west-wind  is  there,) 
I  hear  the  sound  of  earnest  talk, 

Warnings  and  counsels  wise, 
And  the  quick  questioning  that  brought 

Such  gentle,  calm  replies. 

Still  the  light  bridge  hangs  o'er  the  lake, 

Where  broad-leaved  lilies  lie, 
And  the  cool  water  shows  again 

The  cloud  that  moves  on  high ; — 
And  one  voice  speaks,  in  tones  I  thought 

The  past  forever  kept ; 
But  now  I  know,  deep  in  my  heart 

Its  echoes  only  slept. 

I  hear,  within  the  shady  porch, 

Once  more,  the  measured  sound 
Of  the  old  ballads  that  were  read, 

While  we  sat  listening  round  ; 
The  starry  passion-flower  still 

Up  the  green  trellis  climbs ; 
The  tendrils  waving  seem  to  keep 

The  cadence  of  the  rhymes. 


ILLUSION.  161 

I  might  have  striven,  and  striven  in  vain, 

Such  visions  to  recall, 
Well  known  and  yet  forgotten ;  now 

I  see,  I  hear,  them  all ! 
The  Present  pales  before  the  Past, 

Who  comes  with  angel  wings  ; 
As  in  a  dream  I  stand,  amidst 

Strange  yet  familiar  things ! 

Enough  ;  so  let  us  go,  mine  eyes 

Are  blinded  by  their  tears  ; 
A  voice  speaks  to  my  soul  to-day 

Of  long-forgotten  years. 
And  yet  the  vision  in  my  heart, 

In  a  few  hours  more, 
Will  fade  into  the  silent  past, 

Silently  as  before. 


ILLUSION. 

WHERE  the  golden  corn  is  bending, 
And  the  singing  reapers  pass, 

Where  the  chestnut  woods  are  sending 
Leafy  showers  upon  the  grass, 

The  blue  river  onward  flowing 
Mingles  with  its  noisy  strife, 
The  murmur  of  the  flowers  growing, 

And  the  hum  of  insect  life. 
ii 


102  ILLUSION. 

I  from  that  rich  plain  was  gazing 
Towards  the  snowy  mountains  high, 

Who  their  gleaming  peaks  were  raising 
Up  against  the  purple  sky. 

And  the  glory  of  their  shining, 
Bathed  in  clouds  of  rosy  light, 

Set  my  weary  spirit  pining 

For  a  home  so  pure  and  bright  I 

So  I  left  the  plain,  and  weary, 

Fainting,  yet  with  hope  sustained, 
Toiled  through  pathways  long  and  dreaiy 
Till  the  mountain-top  was  gained. 

Lo !  the  height  that  I  had  taken, 

As  so  shining  from  below, 
Was  a  desolate,  forsaken 

Region  of  perpetual  snow. 

I  am  faint,  my  feet  are  bleeding, 
All  my  feeble  strength  is  worn, 

In  the  plain  no  soul  is  heeding, 
I  am  here  alone,  forlorn. 

Lights  are  shining,  bells  are  tolling, 

In  the  busy  vale  below ; 
Near  me  night's  black  clouds  are  rolling, 

Gathering  o'er  a  waste  of  snow. 

So  I  watch  the  river  winding 
Through  the  misty  fading  plain, 


A  VISION.  163 

Bitter  are  the  tear-drops  blinding, 

Bitter,  useless  toil  and  pain, — 
Bitterest  of  all  the  finding 

That  my  dream  was  false  and  vain  I 


A  VISION. 

GLOOMY  and  black  are  the  cypress-trees, 

Drearily  waileth  the  chill  night  breeze. 
The  long  grass  waveth,  the  tombs  are  white, 
And  the  black  clouds  flit  o'er  the  chill  moonlight. 

Silent  is  all  save  the  dropping  rain, 
When  slowly  there  cometh  a  mourning  train  ; 

The  lone  churchyard  is  dark  and  dim, 
And  the  mourners  raise  a  funeral  hymn. 

"  Open,  dark  grave,  and  take  her ; 

Though  we  have  loved  her  so, 
Yet  we  must  now  forsake  her, 

Love  will  no  more  awake  her: 
(O  bitter  woe !) 

Open  thine  arms  and  take  her 
To  rest  below  ! 

"  Vain  is  our  mournful  weeping, 

Her  gentle  life  is  o'er  ; 
Only  the  worm  is  creeping, 

Where  she  will  soon  be  sleeping 
Forevermore : 

Nor  joy  nor  love  is  keeping 
For  her  in  store  ! " 


104  A  VISION. 

Gloomy  and  black  are  the  cypress-trees, 
And  drearily  wave  in  the  chill  night  breeze. 
The  dark  clouds  part  and  the  heavens  are  blue, 
Where  the  trembling  stars  are  shining  through. 


Slowly  across  the  gleaming  sky, 

A  crowd  of  white  angels  are  passing  by. 

Like  a  fleet  of  swans  they  float  along, 

Or  the  silver  notes  of  a  dying  song. 
Like  a  cloud  of  incense  their  pinions  rise, 

Fading  away  up  the  purple  skies. 
But  hush !  for  the  silent  glory  is  stirred, 
By  a  strain  such  as  earth  has  never  heard : 

"  Open,  O  Heaven !  we  bear  her, 

This  gentle  maiden  mild, 
Earth's  griefs  we  gladly  spare  her, 

From  earthly  joys  we  tear  her, 
Still  undefiled ; 

And  to  thine  arms  we  bear  her, 
Thine  own,  thy  child. 


"  Open,  O  Heaven !  no  morrow 

Will  see  this  joy  o'ercast, 
No  pain,  no  tears,  no  sorrow, 
Her  gentle  heart  will  borrow ; 

Sad  life  is  past ; 
Shielded  and  safe  from  sorrow, 

At  home  at  last." 


PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE.  165 

But  the  vision  faded  and  all  was  still, 
On  the  purple  valley  and  distant  hill. 
No  sound  was  there  save  the  wailing  breeze, 
The  rain,  and  the  rustling  cyprus-trees. 


PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE. 

WHAT  is  it  you  ask  me,  darling  ? 

All  my  stories,  child,  you  know ; 
I  have  no  strange  dreams  to  tell  you, 

Pictures  I  have  none  to  show. 

Tell  you  glorious  scenes  of  travel  ? 

Nay,  my  child,  that  cannot  be, 
I  have  seen  no  foreign  countries, 

Marvels  none  on  land  or  sea. 

Yet  strange  sights  in  truth  I  witness, 

And  I  gaze  until  I  tire  ; 
Wondrous  pictures,  changing  ever, 

As  I  look  into  the  fire. 

There,  last  night,  I  saw  a  cavern, 
Black  as  pitch  ;  within  it  lay, 

Coiled  in  many  folds,  a  dragon, 
Glaring  as  if  turned  at  bay. 

And  a  knight  in  dismal  armor 

On  a  winged  eagle  came, 
To  do  battle  with  this  dragon  : 

And  his  crest  was  all  of  flame. 


PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE. 

As  I  gazed  the  dragon  faded, 
And,  instead,  sat  Pluto  crowned 

By  a  lake  of  burning  fire ; 

Spirits  dark  were  crouching  round. 

That  was  gone,  and  lo !  before  me, 

A  cathedral  vast  and  grim  ; 
1  could  almost  hear  the  organs 

Peal  along  the  arches  dim. 

As  I  watched  the  wreathed  pillars, 
Groves  of  stately  palms  arose, 

And  a  group  of  swarthy  Indians 
Stealing  on  some  sleeping  foes. 

Stay :  a  cataract  glancing  brightly 
Dashed  and  sparkled ;  and  beside 

Lay  a  broken  marble  monster, 

Mouth  and  eyes  were  staring  wide. 

Then  I  saw  a  maiden  wreathing 
Starry  flowers  in  garlands  sweet ; 

Did  she  see  the  fiery  serpent 

That  was  wrapped  about  her  feet? 

That  fell  crashing  all  and  vanished ; 

And  I  saw  two  armies  close, — 
I  could  almost  hear  the  clarions, 

And  the  shouting  of  the  foes. 

They  were  gone  ;  and  lo  !  bright  angels 
On  a  barren  mountain  wild, 

Raised  appealing  arms  to  heaven, 
Bearing  up  a  little  child. 


THE  SETTLERS.  167 

And  I  gazed,  and  gazed,  and  slowly 

Gathered  in  my  eyes  sad  tears, 
And  the  fiery  pictures  bore  me 

Back  through  distant  dreams  of  years. 

Once  again  I  tasted  sorrow, 

With  past  joy  was  once  more  gay, 

Till  the  shade  had  gathered  round  me — 
And  the  fire  had  died  away. 


THE  SETTLERS. 

Two  stranger  youths  in  the  Far  West, 

Beneath  the  ancient  forest  trees, 
Pausing,  amid  their  toil  to  rest, 

Spake  of  their  home  beyond  the  seas ; 
Spake  of  the  hearts  that  beat  so  warmly, 

Of  the  hearts  they  loved  so  well, 
In  their  chilly  Northern  country. 

"  Would,"  they  cried, "  some  voice  could  tell 
Where  they  are,  our  own  beloved  ones ! " 

They  looked  up  to  the  evening  sky 
Half  hidden  by  the  giant  branches, 

But  heard  no  angel  voice  reply. 
All  silent  was  the  quiet  evening  ; 

Silent  were  the  ancient  trees ; 
They  only  heard  the  murmuring  song 
Of  the  summer  breeze, 

That  gently  played  among 
The  acacia-trees. 


168  THE  SETTLERS. 

And  did  no  warning  spirit  answer, 

Amid  the  silence  all  around : 
"Before  the  lowly  village  altar 

She  thou  lovest  may  be  found, 
Thou,  who  trustest  still  so  blindly, 

Know  she  stands  a  smiling  bride ! 
Forgetting  thee,  she  turneth  kindly 

To  the  stranger  at  her  side. 
Yes,  this  day  thou  art  forgotten, 

Forgotten,  too,  thy  last  farewell, 
All  the  vows  that  she  has  spoken, 

And  thy  heart  has  kept  so  well. 
Dream  no  more  of  a  starry  future, 

In  thy  home  beyond  the  seas ! " 
But  he  only  heard  the  gentle  sigh 
Of  the  summer  breeze, 

So  softly  passing  by 
The  acacia-trees. 


And  vainly,  too,  the  other,  looking 

Smiling  up  through  hopeful  tears, 
Asked  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
"  Where  is  she, 

She  I  love  these  many  years  ?  " 
He  heard  no  echo  calling  faintly : 

"  Lo,  she  lieth  cold  and  pale, 
And  her  smile  so  calm  and  saintly 

Heeds  not  grieving  sob  or  wail, — 
Heeds  not  the  lilies  strewn  upon  her, 

Pure  as  she  is,  and  as  white, 


HUSH.  169 

Or  the  solemn  chanting  voices 

Or  the  taper's  ghastly  light." 
But  silent  still  was  the  ancient  forest, 

Silent  were  the  gloomy  trees  ; 
He  only  heard  the  wailing  sound 

Of  the  summer  breeze, 
That  sadly  played  around 
The  acacia-trees ! 


HUSH! 

"  I  can  scarcely  hear,"  she  murmured, 
"  For  my  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 
But  surely,  in  the  far,  far  distance, 
I  can  hear  a  sound  at  last." 

"  It  is  only  the  reapers  singing, 

As  they  cariy  home  their  sheaves  ; 
And  the  evening  breeze  has  risen, 
And  rustles  the  dying  leaves. 

"  Listen  !  there  are  voices  talking." 

Calmly  still  she  strove  to  speak, 
Yet  her  voice  grew  faint  and  trembling, 
And  the  red  flushed  in  her  cheek. 
"  It  is  only  the  children  playing 
Below,  now  their  work  is  done, 
And  they  laugh  that  their  eyes  are  dazzled 
By  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun." 

Fainter  grew  her  voice,  and  weaker, 
As  with  anxious  eyes  she  cried, 


170 


HOURS. 

"  Down  the  avenue  of  chestnuts, 
I  can  hear  a  horseman  ride." 

"  It  was  only  the  deer  that  were  feeding 

In  a  herd  on  the  clover-grass, 
They  were  startled,  and  fled  to  the  thicket, 
As  they  saw  the  reapers  pass." 

Now  the  night  arose  in  silence, 
Birds  lay  in  their  leafy  nest, 
And  the  deer  couched  in  the  forest, 
And  the  children  were  at  rest: 
There  was  only  sound  of  weeping 

From  watchers  around  a  bed, 
But  rest  to  the  weary  spirit, 
Peace  to  the  quiet  Dead  ' 


HOURS. 

WHEN  the  bright  stars  came  out  last  night, 
And  the  dew  lay  on  the  flowers, 

I  had  a  vision  of  delight, — 
A  dream  of  bygone  hours. 

Those  hours  that  came  and  fled  so  fast, 

Of  pleasure  or  of  pain, 
As  phantoms  rose  from  out  the  past 

Before  my  eyes  again. 

With  beating  heart  did  I  behold 

A  train  of  joyous  hours, 
Lit  with  the  radiant  light  of  old, 

And,  smiling,  crowned  with  flowers. 


HOURS. 

And  some  were  hours  of  childish  sorrow, 

A  mimicry  of  pain, 
That  through  their  tears  looked  for  a  morrow 

They  knew  must  smile  again. 

Those  hours  of  hope  that  longed  for  life, 

And  wished  their  part  begun, 
And  ere  the  summons  to  the  strife 

Dreamed  that  the  field  was  won. 

I  knew  the  echo  of  their  voice, 

The  starry  crowns  they  wore  ; 
The  vision  made  my  soul  rejoice 

With  the  old  thrill  of  yore. 

I  knew  the  perfume  of  their  flowers  ; 

The  glorious  shining  rays 
Around  these  happy,  smiling  hours, 

Were  lit  in  bygone  days. 

O  stay,  I  cried, — bright  visions,  stay, 

And  leave  me  not  forlorn  ! 
But,  smiling  still,  they  passed  away,    . 

Like  shadows  of  the  morn. 

One  spirit  still  remained,  and  cried, 

"  Thy  soul  shall  ne'er  forget !  " 
He  standeth  ever  by  my  side, — 

The  phantom  called  Regret ! 

But  still  the  spirits  rose,  and  there 

Were  weaiy  hours  of  pain, 
And  anxious  hours  of  fear  and  care 

bound  by  an  iron  chain. 


172  THE  TWO  INTERPRETERS. 

Dim  shadows  came  of  lonely  hours, 
That  shunned  the  light  of  day, 

And  in  the  opening  smile  of  flowers 
Saw  only  quick  decay. 

Calm  hours  that  sought  the  starry  skies 
For  heavenly  lore  was  there ; 

With  folded  hands  and  earnest  eyes, 
I  knew  the  hours  of  prayer. 

Stern  hours  that  darkened  the  sun's  light, 

Heralds  of  coming  woes, 
With  trailing  wings,  before  my  sight 

From  the  dim  past  arose. 

As  each  dark  vision  passed  and  spoke, 

I  prayed  it  to  depart : 
At  each  some  buried  sorrow  woke 

And  stirred  within  my  heart. 

Until  these  hours  of  pain  and  care 

Lifted  their  tearful  eyes, 
Spread  their  dark  pinions  in  the  air, 

And  passed  into  the  skies. 


THE  TWO  INTERPRETERS. 

"  THE  clouds  are  fleeting  by,  father ; 

Look,  in  the  shining  west, 
The  great  white  clouds  sail  onward 
Upon  the  sky's  blue  breast. " 


THE  TWO  INTERPRETERS.  173 

Look  at  a  snowy  eagle, 

His  wings  are  tinged  with  red, 
And  a  giant  dolphin  follows  him, 

With  a  crown  upon  his  head  !  " 

The  father  spake  no  word,  but  watched 

The  drifting  clouds  roll  by; 
He  traced  a  misty  vision  too 

Upon  the  shining  sky : 
A  shadowy  form,  with  well  known  grace 

Of  weary  love  and  care, 
Above  the  smiling  child  she  held, 

Shook  down  her  floating  hair. 

"  The  clouds  are  changing  now,  father, 

Mountains  rise  higher  and  higher  ! 
And  see  where  red  and  purple  ships 

Sail  in  a  sea  of  fire !  " 
The  father  pressed  the  little  hand 

More  closely  in  his  own, 
And  watched  a  cloud-dream  in  the  sky 

That  he  could  see  alone  : 
Bright  angels  carrying  far  away 

A  white  form,  cold  and  dead, 
Two  held  the  feet,  and  two  bore  up 

The  flower-crowned,  drooping  head. 

"  See,  father,  see  !  a  glory  floods 

The  sky,  and  all  is  bright, 
And  clouds  of  every  hue  and  shade 
Burn  in  the  golden  light. 


174  THE  TWO  INTERPRETERS. 

And  now,  above  an  azure  lake, 

Rise  battlements  and  towers, 
Where  knights  and  ladies  climb  the  heights 

All  bearing  purple  flowers." 

The  father  looked,  and,  with  a  pang 

Of  love  and  strange  alarm, 
Drew  close  the  little  eager  child 

Within  his  sheltering  arm ; 
From  out  the  clouds  the  mother  looks 

With  wistful  glance  below, 
She  seems  to  seek  the  treasure  left 

On  earth  so  long  ago ; 
She  holds  her  arms  out  to  her  child, 

His  cradle-song  she  sings : 
The  last  rays  of  the  sunset  gleam 
Upon  her  outspread  wings. 

Calm  twilight  veils  the  summer  sky, 

The  shining  clouds  are  gone  ; 
In  vain  the  merry  laughing  child 

Still  gayly  prattles  on  ; 
In  vain  the  bright  stars,  one  by  one, 

On  the  blue  silence  start, 
A  dreary  shadow  rests  to-night 

Upon  the  father's  heart. 


COMFORT.  175 


COMFORT. 

HAST  thou  o'er  the  clear  heaven  of  thy  soul 

Seen  tempests  roll  ? 

Hast  thou  watched  all  the  hopes  thou  wouldst  have 
won 

Fade,  one  by  one  ? 
Wait  till  the  clouds  are  past,  then  raise  thine  eyes 

To  bluer  skies. 

Hast  thou  gone  sadly  through  a  dreary  night, 

And  found  no  light, 
No  guide,  no  star,  to  cheer  thee  through  the  plain, 

No  friend,  save  pain  ? 
Wait,  and  thy  soul  shall  see,  when  most  forlorn, 

Rise  a  new  morn. 

Hast  thou  beneath  another's  stern  control 

Bent  thy  sad  soul, 
And  wasted  sacred  hopes  and  precious  tears  ? 

Yet  calm  thy  fears, 
For  thou  canst  gain,  even  from  the  bitterest  part, 

A  stronger  heart. 

Has  Fate  o'ervvhelmed  thee  with  some  sudden  blow  ? 

Let  thy  tears  flow ; 
But  know  when  storms  are  past,  the  heavens  appear 

More  pure,  more  clear  ; 
And  hope,  when  farthest  from  their  shining  rays, 

For  brighter  days. 


176  HOME  AT  LAST. 

Hast  thou  found  life  a  cheat,  and  worn  in  vain 

Its  iron  chain  ? 
Hast  thy  soul  bent  beneath  earth's  heavy  bond  ? 

Look  thou  beyond  ; 
If  life  is  bitter — there  forever  shine 

Hopes  more  divine. 

Art  thou  alone,  and  does  thy  soul  complain 

It  lives  in  vain  ? 
Not  vainly  does  he  live  who  can  endure. 

O  be  thou  sure, 
That  he  who  hopes  and  suffers  here,  can  earn 

A  sure  return. 

Hast  thou  found  naught  within  thy  troubled  life 

Save  inward  strife  ? 
Hast  thou  found  all  she  promised  thee,  Deceit, 

And  Hope  a  cheat  ? 
Endure,  and  there  shall  dawn  within  thy  breast 

Eternal  rest ! 


HOME  AT  LAST. 

CHILD,  do  not  fear  ; 
We  shall  reach  our  home  to-night, 
For  the  sky  is  clear, 

And  the  waters  bright ; 
And  the  breezes  have  scarcely  strength 
To  unfold  that  little  cloud, 

That  like  a  shroud 
Spreads  out  its  fleecy  length ; 


HOME  AT  LAST.  177 

Then  have  no  fear, 
As  we  cleave  our  silver  way 
Through  the  waters  clear. 

Fear  not,  my  child  ! 
Though  the  waves  are  white  and  high, 
And  the  storm  blows  wild 

Through  the  gloomy  sky ; 
On  the  edge  of  the  western  sea, 
See  that  line  of  golden  light, 

Is  the  haven  bright 
Where  home  is  awaiting  thee  ; 

Where,  this  peril  past, 
We  shall  rest  from  our  stormy  voyage 

In  peace  at  last. 

Be  not  afraid ; 

But  give  me  thy  hand,  and  see 
How  the  waves  have  made 

A  cradle  for  thee. 

Night  is  come,  dear,  and  we  shall  rest ; 
So  turn  from  the  angry  skies, 

And  close  thine  eyes, 
And  lay  thy  head  on  my  breast : 

Child,  do  not  weep ; 
In  the  calm,  cold,  purple  depths 
There  we  shall  sleep. 


12 


578  UNEXPRESSED. 


UNEXPRESSED. 

DWELLS  within  the  soul  of  every  Artist 
More  than  all  his  effort  can  express ; 
And  he  knows  the  best  remains  unuttered 
Sighing  at  what  we  call  his  success. 

Vainly  he  may  strive ;  he  dare  not  tell 
All  the  sacred  mysteries  of  the  skies ; 
Vainly  he  may  strive,  the  deepest  beauty 
Cannot  be  unveiled  to  mortal  eyes. 

And  the  more  devoutly  that  he  listens, 
And  the  holier  message  that  is  sent, 
Still  the  more  his  soul  must  struggle  vainly 
Bowed  beneath  a  noble  discontent. 

No  great  Thinker  ever  lived  and  taught  you 
All  the  wonder  that  his  soul  received ; 
No  true  Painter  ever  set  on  canvas 
All  the  glorious  vision  he  conceived. 

No  Musician  ever  held  your  spirit 
Charmed  and  bound  in  his  melodious  chains, 
But  be  sure  he  heard,  and  strove  to  render 
Feeble  echoes  of  celestial  strains. 

No  real  Poet  ever  wove  in  numbers 
All  his  dream  ;  but  the  diviner  part, 
Hidden  from  all  the  world,  spake  to  him  only 
In  the  voiceless  silence  of  his  heart. 


BECAUSE.  179 

So  with  Love  :  for  Love  and  Art  united 
Are  twin  mysteries ;  different,  yet  the  same : 
Poor  indeed  would  be  the  love  of  any 
Who  could  find  its  full  and  perfect  name. 

Love  may  strive,  but  vain  is  the  endeavor 
All  its  boundless  riches  to  unfold  ; 
Still  its  tenderest,  truest  secret  lingers 
Ever  in  its  deepest  depths  untold. 

Things  of  Time  have  voices  :  speak  and  perish, 
Art  and  Love  speak ;  but  their  words  must  be 
Like  sighings  of  illimitable  forests, 
And  waves  of  an  unfathomable  sea. 


BECAUSE. 

IT  is  not  because  your  heart  is  mine — mine  only — 

Mine  alone  ; 
It  is  not  because  you  chose  me,  weak  and  lonely, 

For  your  own  ; 
Not  because  the  earth  is  fairer,  and  the  skies 

Spread  above  you 
Are  more  radiant  for  the  shining  of  your  eyes — 

That  I  love  you  ! 

It  is  not  because  the  world's  perplexed  meaning 

Grows  more  clear ; 
And  the  Parapets  of  Heaven,  with  angels  leaning 

Seem  more  near ; 


180  REST  AT  EVENING. 

And  Nature  sings  of  praise  with  all  her  voices 

Since  yours  spoke, 
Since  within  ray  silent  heart,  that  now  rejoices, 

Love  awoke ! 

Nay,  not  even  because  your  hand  holds  heart  and  life  ; 

At  your  will 
Soothing,  hushing  all  its  discord,  making  strife 

Calm  and  still  ; 
Teaching  Trust  to  fold  her  wings,  nor  even  roam 

From  her  nest ; 
Teaching  Love  that  her  securest,  safest  home 

Must  be  Rest. 

But  because  this  human  Love,  though  true  and  sweet 

Yours  and  mine — 
Has  been  sent  by  love  more  tender,  more  complete, 

More  divine ; 
That  it  leads  our  hearts  to  rest  at  last  in  Heaven, 

Far  above  you ; 
Do  I  take  you  as  a  gift  that  God  has  given — 

— And  I  love  you  ! 


REST  AT  EVENING. 

WHEN  the  weariness  of  Life  is  ended, 
And  the  task  of  our  long  day  is  done, 
And  the  props,  on  which  our  hearts  depended 
All  have  failed  or  broken,  one  by  one  : 
Evening  and  our  Sorrow's  shadow  blended, 
Telling  us  that  peace  is  now  begun. 


REST  AT  EVENING.  181 

How  far  back  will  seem  the  sun's  first  dawning, 

And  those  early  mists  so  cold  and  gray ! 

Half  forgotten  even  the  toil  of  morning, 

And  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day : 

Flowers  that  we  were  tending,  and  weeds  scorning, 

All  alike  withered  and  cast  away. 

Vain  will  seem  the  impatient  heart,  which  waited 

Toils  that  gathered  but  too  quickly  round  ; 

And  the  childish  joy,  so  soon  elated 

At  the  path  we  thought  none  else  had  found : 

And  the  foolish  ardor,  soon  abated 

By  the  storm  which  cast  us  to  the  ground. 

Vain  those  pauses  on  the  road,  each  seeming 

As  our  final  home  and  resting-place  ; 

And  the  leaving  them,  while  tears  were  streaming 

Of  eternal  sorrow  down  our  face ; 

And  the  hands  we  held,  fond  folly  dreaming 

That  no  future  could  their  touch  efface. 

All  will  then  be  faded  : — night  will  borrow 
Stars  of  light  to  crown  our  perfect  rest ; 
And  the  dim  vague  memory  of  faint  sorrow 
Just  remain  to  show  us  all  was  best, 
Then  melt  into  a  divine  to-morrow  : — 
O  how  poor  a  day  to  be  so  blest ! 


RETROSPECT. 


A  RETROSPECT. 

FROM  this  fair  point  of  present  bliss, 

Where  we  together  stand, 
Let  me  look  back  once  more,  and  trace 

That  long  and  desert  land. 

Wherein  till  now  was  cast  my  lot,  and  I  could  live, 
and  thou  wert  not. 

Strange  that  my  heart  could  beat,  and  know 

Alternate  joy  and  pain, 
That  suns  could  roll  from  east  to  west, 

And  clouds  could  pass  in  rain, 

And  the  slow  hours  without  thee  fleet,  nor  stay  their 
noiseless  silver  feet. 

What  had  I  then  ?  a  Hope,  that  grew 

Each  hour  more  bright  and  dear, 
The  flush  upon  the  eastern  skies 

That  showed  the  sun  was  near : — 
Now  night  has  faded  far  away,  my  sun  has  risen,  and 
it  is  day. 

A  dim  Ideal  of  tender  grace 

In  my  soul  reigned  supreme ; 
Too  noble  and  too  sweet  I  thought 

To  live,  save  in  a  dream  ; — 

Within  thy  heart  to-day  it  lies,  and  looks  on  me  from 
thy  dear  eyes. 


A  RETROSPECT.  183 

Some  gentle  spirit — Love  I  thought — 

Built  many  a  shrine  of  pain  ; 
Though  each  false  Idol  fell  to  dust, 

The  worship  was  not  vain, 

But  a  faint,  radiant  shadow  cast  back  from  our  Love 
upon  the  Past. 

And  Grief,  too,  held  her  vigil  there  ; 

With  unrelenting  sway 
Breaking  my  cloudy  visions  down, 

Throwing  my  flowers  away  : — 

I  owe  to  her  fond  care  alone  that  I  may  now  be  all 
thine  own. 

Fair  Joy  was  there, — her  fluttering  wings 

At  times  she  strove  to  raise  ; 
Watching  through  long  and  patient  nights, 

Listening  long  eager  days  : 

I  know  now  that  her  heart  and  mine  were  waiting, 
Love,  to  welcome  thine. 

Thus  I  can  read  thy  name  throughout, 

And,  now  her  task  is  done, 
Can  see  that  even  that  faded  Past 

Was  thine,  beloved  one, 

And  so  rejoice  my  Life  may  be  all  consecrated,  dear, 
to  thee. 


TRUE  OR  FALSE. 


TRUE  OR  FALSE. 

So  you  think  you  love  me,  do  you  ? 

Well,  it  may  be  so  ; 
But  there  are  many  ways  of  loving 

I  have  learnt  to  know. 
Many  ways,  and  but  one  true  way, 

Which  is  very  rare  ; 
And  the  counterfeits  look  brightest, 

Though  they  will  not  wear. 

Yet  they  ring,  almost,  quite  truly, 

Last  (with  care)  for  long  ; 
But  in  time  must  break,  may  shiver 

At  a  touch  of  wrong: 
Having  seen  what  looked  most  real 

Crumble  into  dust ; 
Now  I  choose  that  test  and  trial 

Should  precede  ray  trust. 

I  have  seen  a  love  demanding 

Time  and  hope  and  tears, 
Chaining  all  the  past,  exacting 

Bonds  from  future  years, 
Mind  and  heart,  and  joy  and  sorrow, 

Claiming  as  its  fee  : 
That  was  Love  of  Self,  and  never, 

Never  Love  of  me ! 


TRUE  OR  FALSE.  185 

1  have  seen  a  love  forgetting 

All  above,  beyond, 
Linking  every  dream  and  fancy 

In  a  sweeter  bond ; 
Counting  every  hour  worthless, 

Which  was  cold  or  free  : — 
That,  perhaps,  was — Love  of  Pleasure, 

But  not  Love  of  me  ! 

I  have  seen  a  love  whose  patience 

Never  turned  aside, 
Full  of  tender,  fond  devices ; 

Constant,  even  when  tried ; 
Smallest  boons  were  held  as  victories, 

Drops  that  swelled  the  sea  : 
That  I  think  was — Love  of  Power, 

But  not  Love  of  me ! 

I  have  seen  a  love  disdaining 

Ease  and  pride  and  fame, 
Burning  even  its  own  white  pinions 

Just  to  feed  its  flame : 
Reigning  thus,  supreme,  triumphant, 

By  the  soul's  decree  ; 
That  was — Love  of  Love,  I  fancy, 

But  not  Love  of  me ! 

I  have  heard — or  dreamt,  it  may  be — 

What  Love  is  when  true : 
How  to  test  and  how  to  tiy  it, 

Is  the  gift  of  few  : 


186  TRUE  OR  FALSE. 

These  few  say  (or  did  I  dream  it?) 

That  true  Love  abides 
In  these  very  things,  but  always 

Has  a  soul  besides. 

Lives  among  the  false  loves,  knowing 

Just  their  peace  and  strife ; 
Bears  the  self-same  look,  but  always 

Has  an  inner  life. 
Only  a  true  heart  can  find  it, 

True  as  it  is  true, 
Only  eyes  as  clear  and  tender 

Look  it  through  and  through. 

If  it  dies,  it  will  not  perish 

By  Time's  slow  decay, 
True  Love  only  grows  (they  tell  me) 

Stronger,  day  by  day  : 
Pain — has  been  its  friend  and  comrade 

Fate — it  can  defy  ; 
Only  by  its  own  sword,  sometimes 

Love  can  choose  to  die. 

And  its  grave  shall  be  more  noble 

And  more  sacred  still, 
Than  a  throne,  where  one  less  worthy 

Reigns  and  rules  at  will. 
Tell  me  then,  do  you  dare  offer 

This  true  Love  to  me  ?  .  .  , 
Neither  you  nor  I  can  answer ; 
We  will — wait  and  see  ! 


GOLDEN  WORDS.  187 


GOLDEN  WORDS. 

SOME  words  are  played  on  golden  strings, 

Which  I  so  highly  rate, 
I  cannot  bear  for  meaner  things 

Their  sound  to  desecrate. 

For  every  day  they  are  not  meet, 

Or  for  a  careless  tone ; 
They  are  for  rarest,  and  most  sweet, 

And  noblest  use  alone. 

One  word  is  POET  :  which  is  flung 

So  carelessly  away, 
When  such  as  you  and  I  have  sung, 

We  hear  it,  day  by  day. 

Men  pay  it  for  a  tender  phrase 

Set  in  a  cadenced  rhyme  : 
I  keep  it  as  a  crown  of  praise 

To  crown  the  kings  of  time. 

And  LOVE  :  the  slightest  feelings,  stirred 

By  trivial  fancy,  seek 
Expression  in  that  golden  word 

They  tarnish  while  they  speak. 

Nay,  let  the  heart's  slow,  rare  decree, 
That  word  in  reverence  keep ; 

Silence  herself  should  only  be 
More  sacred  and  more  deep. 


GOLDEN  WORDS. 

FOREVER  :  men  have  grown  at  length 

To  use  that  word,  to  raise 
Some  feeble  protest  into  strength, 

Or  turn  some  tender  phrase. 

It  should  be  said  in  awe  and  fear 
By  true  heart  and  strong  will, 

And  burn  more  brightly  year  by  year, 
A  starry  witness  still. 

HONOR  :  all  trifling  hearts  are  fond 

Of  that  divine  appeal, 
And  men,  upon  the  slightest  bond, 

Set  it  as  slighter  seal. 

That  word  should  meet  a  noble  foe 

Upon  a  noble  field, 
And  echo — like  a  deadly  blow 

Turned  by  a  silver  shield. 

Trust  me,  the  worth  of  words  is  such 
They  guard  all  noble  things, 

And  that  this  rash  irreverent  touch 
Has  jarred  some  golden  strings. 

For  what  the  lips  have  lightly  said 
The  heart  will  lightly  hold 

And  things  on  which  we  daily  thread 
Are  lightly  bought  and  sold. 

The  sun  of  every  day  will  bleach 
The  costliest  purple  hue, 


GOLDEN  WORDS.  189 

And  so  our  common  daily  speech 
Discolors  what  was  true. 

But  as  you  keep  some  thoughts  apart 

In  sacred  honored  care, 
If  in  the  silence  of  your  heart, 

Their  utterance  too  be  rare  ; 

Then,  while  a  thousand  words  repeat 

Unmeaning  clamors  all, 
Melodious  golden  echoes  sweet 

Shall  answer  when  you  call. 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS. 
A  BOOK  OF  VEKSES. 


SECOND  SERIES. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

THE  lights  extinguished,  by  the  hearth  I  leant, 
Half  weary  with  a  listless  discontent. 
The  flickering  giant-shadows,  gathering  near, 
Closed  round  me  with  a  dim  and  silent  fear. 
All  dull,  all  dark ;  save  when  the  leaping  flame, 
Glancing,  lit  up  a  Picture's  ancient  frame. 
Above  the  hearth  it  hung.     Perhaps  the  night, 
My  foolish  tremors,  or  the  gleaming  light, 
Lent  power  to  that  Portrait  dark  and  quaint, — 
A  Portrait  such  as  Rembrandt  loved  to  paint, — 
The  likeness  of  a  Nun.     I  seemed  to  trace 
A  world  of  sorrow  in  the  patient  face, 
In  the  thin  hands  folded  across  her  breast : — 
Its  own  and  the  room's  shadow  hid  the  rest. 
I  gazed  and  dreamed,  and  the  dull  embers  stirred, 
Till -an  old  legend  that  I  once  had  heard 
Came  back  to  me  ;  linked  to  the  mystic  gloom 
Of  that  dark  Picture  in  the  ghostly  room. 

In  the  far  south,  where  clustering  vines  are  hung ; 
Where  first  the  old  chivalric  lays  were  sung ; 
Where  earliest  smiled  that  gracious  child  of  France, 
Angel  and  knight  and  fairy,  called  Romance, 
I  stood  one  day.     The  warm  blue  June  was  spread 
Upon  the  earth  ;  blue  summer  overhead, 

193 


194  A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

Without  a  cloud  to  fleck  its  radiant  glare, 

Without  a  breath  to  stir  its  sultry  air. 

All  still,'  all  silent,  save  the  sobbing  rush 

Of  rippling  waves,  that  lapsed  in  silver  hush 

Upon  the  beach ;  where,  glittering  towards  the  strand 

The  purple  Mediterranean  kissed  the  land. 

All  still,  all  peaceful ;  when  a  convent  chime 

Broke  on  the  mid-day  silence  for  a  time, 

Then  trembling  into  quiet,  seemed  to  cease, 

In  deeper  silence  and  more  utter  peace. 

So  as  I  turned  to  gaze,  where  gleaming  white, 

Half  hid  by  shadowy  trees  from  passers'  sight, 

The  Convent  lay,  one  who  had  dwelt  for  long 

In  that  fair  home  of  ancient  tale  and  song, 

Who  knew  the  story  of  each  cave  and  hill, 

And  every  haunting  fancy  lingering  still 

Within  the  land,  spake  thus  to  me,  and  told 

The  Convent's  treasured  Legend,  quaint  and  old : — 

Long  years  ago,  a  dense  and  flowering  wood, 

Still  more  concealed  where  the  white  convent  stood, 

Borne  on  its  perfumed  wings  the  title  came  : 

"  Our  Lady  of  the  Hawthorns  "  is  its  name. 

Then  did  that  bell,  which  still  rings  out  to-day, 

Bid  all  the  country  rise,  or  eat,  or  pray. 

Before  that  convent  shrine,  the  haughty  knight 

Passed  the  lone  vigil  of  his  perilous  fight ; 

For  humbler  cottage  strife  or  village  brawl, 

The  Abbess  listened,  prayed,  and  settled  all. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE.  195 

Young  hearts  that  came,  weighed  down  by  love  or 

wrong, 

Left  her  kind  presence  comforted  and  strong. 
Each  passing  pilgrim,  and  each  beggar's  right 
Was  food,  and  rest,  and  shelter  for  the  night. 
But,  more  than  this,  the  Nuns  could  well  impart 
The  deepest  mysteries  of  the  healing  art ; 
Their  store  of  herbs  and  simples  was  renowned, 
And  held  in  wondering  faith  for  miles  around. 
Thus  strife,  love,  sorrow,  good  and  evil  fate, 
Found  help  and  blessing  at  the  convent  gate. 

Of  all  the  nuns,  no  heart  was  half  so  light, 

No  eyelids  veiling  glances  half  as  bright, 

No  step  that  glided  with  such  noiseless  feet, 

No  face  that  looked  so  tender  or  so  sweet, 

No  voice  that  rose  in  choir  so  pure,  so  clear, 

No  heart  to  all  the  others  half  so  dear, 

So  surely  touched  by  others'  pain  or  woe, 

(Guessing   the    grief    her    young    life    could    not 

know,) 

No  soul  in  childlike  faith  so  undefiled, 
As  Sister  Angela's,  the  "  Convent  Child." 
For  thus  they  loved  to  call  her.     She  had  known 
No  home,  no  love,  no  kindred,  save  their  own. 
An  orphan,  to  their  tender  nursing  given, 
Child,  plaything,  pupil,  now  the  Bride  of  Heaven 
And  she  it  was  who  trimmed  the  lamp's  red  light 
That  swung  before  the  altar,  day  and  night ; 
Her  hands  it  was  whose  patient  skill  could  trace 
The  finest  broidery,  weave  the  costliest  lace ; 


196  A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

But  most  of  all,  her  first  and  dearest  care, 
The  office  she  would  never  miss  or  share, 
Was  every  day  to  weave  fresh  garlands  sweet, 
To  place  before  the  shrine  at  Mary's  feet. 

Nature  is  bounteous  in  that  region  fair, 

For  even  winter  has  her  blossoms  there. 

Thus  Angela  loved  to  count  each  feast  the  best, 

Bjr  telling  with  what  flowers  the  shrine  was  dressed. 

In  pomp  supreme  the  countless  Roses  passed, 

Battalion  on  battalion  thronging  fast, 

Each  with  a  different  banner,  flaming  bright, 

Damask,  or  striped,  or  crimson,  pink,  or  white, 

Until  they  bowed  before  a  newborn  queen, 

And  the  pure  virgin  Lily  rose  serene. 

Though  Angela  always  thought  the  Mother  blest 

Must  love  the  time  of  her  own  hawthorn  best, 

Each  evening  through  the  years,  with  equal  care, 

She  placed  her  flowers  ;  then  kneeling  down  in  prayer, 

As  their  faint  perfume  rose  before  the  shrine, 

So  rose  her  thoughts,  as  pure  and  as  divine. 

She  knelt  until  the  shades  grew  dim  without, 

Till  one  by  one  the  altar  lights  shone  out, 

Till  one  by  one  the  Nuns,  like  shadows  dim, 

Gathered  around  to  chant  their  vesper  hymn ; 

Her  voice  then  led  the  music's  winged  flight, 

And  «  Ave,  Maris  Stella"  filled  the  night. 

But  wherefore  linger  on  those  days  of  peace? 

When  storms  draw  near,  then  quiet  hours  must  cease. 

War,  cruel  war,  defaced  the  land,  and  came 

So  near  the  convent  with  its  breath  of  flame, 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE.  197 

That,  seeking  shelter,  frightened  peasants  fled, 

Sobbing  out  tales  of  coming  fear  and  dread. 

Till  after  a  fierce  skirmish,  down  the  road, 

One  night  came  straggling  soldiers,  with  their  load 

Of  wounded,  dying  comrades  ;  and  the  band, 

Half  pleading,  yet  as  if  they  could  command, 

Summoned  the  trembling  Sisters,  craved  their  care, 

Then  rode  away,  and  left  the  wounded  there. 

But  soon  compassion  bade  all  fear  depart, 

And  bidding  every  Sister  do  her  part, 

Some  prepare  simples,  healing  salves,  or  bands, 

The  Abbess  chose  the  more  experienced  hands, 

To  dress  the  wounds  needing  most  skilful  care ; 

Yet  even  the  youngest  Novice  took  her  share. 

To  Angela,  who  had  but  ready  will 

And  tender  pity,  yet  no  special  skill, 

Was  given  the  charge  of  a  young  foreign  knight, 

Whose  wounds  were  painful,  but  whose  danger  slight, 

Day  after  day  she  watched  beside  his  bed, 

And  first  in  hushed  repose  the  hours  fled : 

His  feverish  moans  alone  the  silence  stirred, 

Or  her  soft  voice,  uttering  some  pious  word. 

At  last  the  fever  left  him  ;  day  by  day 

The  hours,  no  longer  silent,  passed  away. 

What  could  she  speak  of  ?     First,  to  still  his  plaints, 

She  told  him  legends  of  the  martyred  Saints  ; 

Described  the  pangs,  which,  through  God's  plenteous 

grace, 

Had  gained  their  souls  so  high  and  bright  a  place. 
This  pious  artifice  soon  found  success — • 
Or  so  she  fancied — for  he  murmured  less. 


198  A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

So  she  described  the  glorious  pomp  sublime, 

In  which  the  chapel  shone  at  Easter  time, 

The  Banners,  Vestments,  gold,  and  colors  bright, 

Counted  how  many  tapers  gave  their  light ; 

Then  in  minute  detail  went  on  to  say, 

How  the  High  Altar  looked  on  Christmas-day: 

The  kings  and  shepherds,  all  in  green  and  red, 

And  a  bright  star  of  jewels  overhead. 

Then  told  the  sign  by  which  they  all  had  seen 

How  even  nature  loved  to  greet  her  Queen, 

For,  when  Our  Lady's  last  procession  went 

Down  the  long  garden,  every  head  was  bent, 

And,  rosary  in  hand,  each  Sister  prayed  ; 

As  the  long  floating  banners  were  displayed, 

They  struck  the  hawthorn  boughs,  and  showers  and 

showers 

Of  buds  and  blossoms  strewed  her  way  with  flowers. 
The  knight  unwearied  listened ;  till  at  last, 
He  too  described  the  glories  of  his  past; 
Tourney,  and  joust,  and  pageant  bright  and  fair, 
And  all  the  lovely  ladies  who  were  there. 
But  half  incredulous  she  heard.     Could  this — 
This  be  the  world  ?  this  place  of  love  and  bliss  ! 
Where  then  was  hid  the  strange  and  hideous  charm, 
That  never  failed  to  bring  the  gazer  harm  ? 
She  crossed  herself,  yet  asked,  and  listened  still, 
And  still  the  knight  described  with  all  his  skill 
The  glorious  world  of  joy,  all  joys  above, 
Transfigured  in  the  golden  mist  of  love. 
Spread,  spread  your  wings,  ye  angel  guardians  bright, 
And  shield  these  dazzling  phantoms  from  her  sight ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE.  199 

But  no  ;  days  passed,  matins  and  vespers  rang, 

And  still  the  quiet  Nuns  toiled,  prayed,  and  sang, 

And  never  guessed  the  fatal,  coiling  net 

Which  every  day  drew  near,  and  nearer  yet, 

Around  their  darling ;  for  she  went  and  came 

About  her  duties,  outwardly  the  same. 

The  same  ?  ah,  no  !  even  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 

Some  charmed  dream  kept  all  her  heart  away. 

So  days  went  on,  until  the  convent  gate 

Opened  one  night.     Who  durst  go  forth  so  late  ? 

Across  the  moonlit  grass,  with  stealthy  tread, 

Two  silent,  shrouded  figures  passed  and  fled. 

And  all  was  silent,  save  the  moaning  seas, 

That  sobbed  and  pleaded,  and  a  wailing  breeze 

That  sighed  among  the  perfumed  hawthorn-trees. 

What  need  to  tell  that  dream  so  bright  and  brief, 

Of  joy  uncheckered  by  a  dread  of  grief  ? 

What  need  to  tell  how  all  such  dreams  must  fade, 

Before  the  slow,  foreboding,  dreaded  shade, 

That  floated  nearer,  until  pomp  and  pride, 

Pleasure  and  wealth,  were  summoned  to  her  side, 

To  bid,  at  least,  the  noisy  hours  forget, 

And  clamor  down  the  whispers  of  regret. 

Still  Angela  strove  to  dream,  and  strove  in  vain  ; 

Awakened  once,  she  could  not  sleep  again. 

She  saw,  each  day  and  hour,  more  worthless  grown 

The  heart  for  which  she  cast  away  her  own ; 

And  her  soul  learnt,  through  bitterest  inward  strife, 

The  slight,  frail  love  for  which  she  wrecked  her  life, 

The  phantom  for  which  all  her  hope  was  given, 

The  cold  bleak  earth  for  which  she  bartered  heaven 


200  A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

But  all  in  vain  ;  would  even  the  tenderest  heart 
Now  stoop  to  take  so  poor  an  outcast's  part  ? 

Years  fled,  and  she  grew  reckless  more  and  more, 
Until  the  humblest  peasant  closed  his  door, 
And  where  she  passed,  fair  dames,  in  scorn  and  pride, 
Shuddered,  and  drew  their  rustling  robes  aside. 
At  last  a  yearning  seemed  to  fill  her  soul, 
A  longing  that  was  stronger  than  control : 
Once  more,  just  once  again,  to  see  the  place 
That  knew  her  young  and  innocent ;  to  retrace 
The  long  and  weary  southern  path  ;  to  gaze 
Upon  the  haven  of  her  childish  days  ; 
Once  more  beneath  the  convent  roof  to  lie  ; 
Once  more  to  look  upon  her  home — and  die  ! 
Weary  and  worn — her  comrades,  chill  remorse 
And  black  despair,  yet  a  strange  silent  force 
Within  her  heart,  that  drew  her  more  and  more — 
Onward  she  crawled,  and  begged  from  door  to  door. 
Weighed  down  with  weary  days,  her  failing  strength 
Grew  less  each  hour,  till  one  day's  dawn  at  length, 
As  first  its  rays  flooded  the  world  with  light, 
Showed  the  broad  waters,  glittering  blue  and  bright, 
And  where,  amid  the  leafy  hawthorn  wood, 
Just  as  of  old  the  quiet  cloister  stood. 
Would  any  know  her  ?     Nay,  no  fear.     Her  face 
Had  lost  all  trace  of  youth,  of  joy,  of  grace, 
Of  the  pure,  happy  soul  they  used  to  know — 
The  novice  Angela — so  long  ago. 
She  rang  the  convent  bell.     The  well-known  sound 
Smote  on  her  heart,  and  bowed  her  to  the  ground. 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE.  201 

And  she,  who  had  not  wept  for  long,  dry  years, 

Felt  the  strange  rush  of  unaccustomed  tears ; 

Terror  and  anguish  seemed  to  check  her  breath, 

And  stop  her  heart.     O  God  !  could  this  be  death  ? 

Crouching  against  the  iron  gate,  she  laid 

Her  weary  head  against  the  bars,  and  prayed : 

But  nearer  footsteps  drew,  then  seemed  to  wait, 

And  then  she  heard  the  opening  of  the  grate, 

And  saw  the  withered  face,  on  which  awoke 

Pity  and  sorrow,  as  the  portress  spoke, 

And  ask  the  stranger's  bidding :  "  Take  me  in," 

She  faltered,  "  Sister  Monica,  from  sin, 

And  sorrow,  and  despair,  that  will  not  cease ; 

O,  take  me  in,  and  let  me  die  in  peace  ! " 

With  soothing  words  the  Sister  bade  her  wait, 

Until  she  brought  the  key  to  unbar  the  gate. 

The  beggar  tried  to  thank  her  as  she  lay, 

And  heard  the  echoing  footsteps  die  away. 

But  what  soft  voice  was  that  which  sounded  near, 

And  stirred  strange  trouble  in  her  heart  to  hear  ? 

She   raised    her    head  ;    she    saw — she    seemed  to 

know — 

A  face  that  came  from  long,  long  years  ago : 
Herself  ;  yet  not  as  when  she  fled  away, 
The  young  and  blooming  novice,  fair  and  gay, 
But  a  grave  woman,  gentle  and  serene  : 
The  outcast  knew  it, — what  she  might  have  been. 
But,  as  she  gazed  and  gazed,  a  radiance  bright 
Filled  all  the  place  with  strange  and  sudden  light; 
The  Nun  was  there  no  longer,  but  instead, 
A  figure  ^vith  a  circle  round  its  head, 


202  A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE. 

A  ring  of  glory ;  and  a  face,  so  meek, 
So  soft,  so  tender  .  .  .  Angela  strove  to  speak, 
And  stretched  her  hands  out,  crying,  "  Mary  mild, 
Mother  of  mercy,  help  me  F—  help  your  child ! " 
And  Mary  answered,  *'  From  thy  bitter  past, 
Welcome,  my  child !     O,  welcome  home  at  last ! 
I  filled  thy  place.     Thy  flight  is  known  to  none, 
For  all  thy  daily  duties  I  have  done ; 
Gathered  thy  flowers,  and  prayed,  and  sung,  and  slept ; 
Didst  thou  not  know, poor  child,  thy  place  was  kept? 
Kind  hearts  are  here  ;  yet  would  the  tenderest  one 
Have  limits  to  its  mercy :  God  has  none. 
And  man's  forgiveness  may  be  true  and  sweet, 
But  yet  he  stoops  to  give  it.     More  complete 
Is  Love  that  lays  forgiveness  at  thy  feet, 
And  pleads  with  thee  to  raise  it.     Only  Heaven 
Means  crowned,  not  vanquished,  when  it  says,  '  For- 
given !  '  " 

Back  hurried  Sister  Monica  ;  but  where 
Was  the  poor  beggar  she  left  lying  there  ? 
Gone  ;  and  she  searched  in  vain,  and  sought  the  place 
For  that  wan  woman,  with  the  piteous  face : 
But  only  Angela  at  the  gateway  stood, 
Laden  with  hawthorn  blossoms  from  the  wood. 
And  never  did  a  day  pass  by  again, 
But  the  old  portress,  with  a  sigh  of  pain, 
Would  sorrow  for  her  loitering :  with  a  prayer 
That  the  poor  beggar,  in  her  wild  despair, 
Might  not  have  come  to  any  ill ;  and  when 
She  ended,  "  God  forgive  her  !  "  humbly  then 
Did  Angela  bow  her  head,  and  say,  "  Amen  !  " 


A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE.  203 

How  pitiful  her  heart  was  !  all  could  trace 
Something  that  dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  face 
After  that  day,  which  none  had  seen  before ; 
Not  trouble — but  a  shadow — nothing  more. 

Years  passed  away.     Then,  one  dark  day  of  dread 
Saw  all  the  Sisters  kneeling  round  a  bed, 
Where  Angela  lay  dying  ;  every  breath 
Struggling  beneath  the  heavy  hand  of  death. 
But  suddenly  a  flush  lit  up  her  cheek, 
She  raised  her  wan  right  hand,  and  strove  to  speak. 
In  sorrowing  love  they  listened  ;  not  a  sound 
Or  sigh  disturbed  the  utter  silence  round. 
The  very  tapers'  flames  were  scarcely  stirred, 
In  such  hushed  awe  the  Sisters  knelt  and  heard. 
And  through  that  silence  Angela  told  her  life  : 
Her  sin,  her  flight ;  the  sorrow  and  the  strife, 
And  the  return  ;  and  then  clear,  low,  and  calm, 
"  Praise  God  for  me,  my  sisters  ;  "  and  the  psalm 
Rang  up  to  heaven,  far  and  clear  and  wide, 
Again,  and  yet  again,  then  sank  and  died  ; 
While  her  white  face  had  such  a  smile  of  peace, 
They  saw  she  never  heard  the  music  cease ; 
And  weeping  Sisters  laid  her  in  her  tomb, 
Crowned  with  a  wreath  of  perfumed  hawthorn  bloom. 

And  thus  the  Legend  ended.     It  may  be 
Something  is  hidden  in  the  mystery, 
Besides  the  lesson  of  God's  pardon  shown, 
Never  enough  believed,  or  asked,  or  known. 
Have  we  not  all,  amid  life's  petty  strife, 
Some  pure  ideal  of  a  noble  life 


204:  ENVY. 

That  once  seemed  possible  ?     Did  we  not  hear 

The  flutter  of  its  wings,  and  feel  it  near, 

And  jnst  within  our  reach  ?     It  was.     And  yet 

We  lost  it  in  this  daily  jar  and  fret, 

And  now  live  idle  in  a  vague  regret. 

But  still  our  place  is  kept,  and  it  will  wait, 

Ready  for  us  to  fill  it,  soon  or  late : 

No  star  is  ever  lost  we  once  have  seen, 

We  always  may  be  what  we  might  have  been. 

Since  Good,  though  only  thought,  has  life  and  breath, 

God's  life — can  always  be  redeemed  from  death  ; 

And  evil,  in  its  nature,  is  decay, 

And  any  hour  can  blot  it  all  away  ; 

The  hopes  that  lost  in  some  far  distance  seem, 

May  be  the  truer  life,  and  this  the  dream. 


ENVY. 

HE  was  the  first  always  :  Fortune 

Shone  bright  in  his  face. 
I  fought  for  years  ;  with  no  effort 

He  conquered  the  place  : 
We  ran  ;  my  feet  were  all  bleeding, 

But  he  won  the  race. 

Spite  of  his  many  successes, 

Men  loved  him  the  same, 
My  one  pale  ray  of  good  fortune 

Met  scoffing  and  blame. 
When  we  erred,  they  gave  him  pity, 

But  me — only  shame. 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN.  205 

My  home  was  still  in  shadow, 

His  lay  in  the  sun  : 
I  longed  in  vain  :  what  he  asked  for 

It  straightway  was  done. 
Once  I  staked  all  my  heart's  treasure, 

We  played — and  he  won. 

Yes  !  and  just  now  I  have  seen  him, 

Cold,  smiling,  and  blest, 
Laid  in  his  coffin.     God  help  me  ! 

While  he  is  at  rest, 
I  am  cursed  still  to  live  : — even 

Death  loved  him  the  best. 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

LIKE  dreary  prison  walls 

The  stern,  gray  mountains  rise, 
Until  their  topmost  crags 

Touch  the  far  gloomy  skies : 
One  steep  and  narrow  path 

Winds  up  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  from  OUT  valley  leads 

Out  to  the  golden  West. 

I  dwell  here  in  content, 

Thankful  for  tranquil  days ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  grow  dim, 
As  still  I  gaze  and  gaze 


206  OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Upon  that  mountain  pass, 
That  leads — or  so  it  seems — 

To  some  far  happy  land, 

Known  in  a  world  of  dreams. 

And  as  I  watch  that  path 

Over  the  distant  hill, 
A  foolish  longing  comes 

My  heart  and  soul  to  fill, 
A  painful,  strange  desire 

To  break  some  weaiy  bond ; 
A  vague  unuttered  wish 

For  what  might  lie  beyond  I 

In  that  far  world  unknown, 

Over  that  distant  hill, 
May  dwell  the  loved  and  lost, 

Lost — yet  beloved  still ; 
I  have  a  yearning  hope, 

Half  longing,  and  half  pain, 
That  by  that  mountain  pass 

They  may  return  again. 

Space  may  keep  friends  apart, 

Death  has  a  mighty  thrall; 
There  is  another  gulf 

Harder  to  cross  than  all ; 
Yet  watching  that  far  road, 

My  heart  beats  full  and  fast : 
If  they  should  come  once  more, 

If  they  should  come  at  last ! 


BEYOND.  207 


See,  down  the  mountain-side 

The  silver  vapors  creep ; 
They  hide  the  rocky  cliffs, 

They  hide  the  craggy  steep, 
They  hide  the  narrow  path 

That  comes  across  the  hill : — 
O  foolish  longing,  cease, 

O  beating  Heart,  be  still ! 


BEYOND. 

WE  must  not  doubt,  or  fear,  or  dread,  that  love  for 

life  is  only  given, 
And   that   the   calm   and   sainted   dead   will    meet 

estranged  and  cold  in  heaven  : — 
O,  Love  were  poor  and  vain  indeed,  based  on  so  harsh 

and  stern  a  creed. 

True  that  this  earth  must  pass  away,  with  all  the 
starry  worlds  of  light, 

With  all  the  glory  of  the  day,  and  calmer  tenderness 
of  night ; 

For  in  that  radiant  home  can  shine  alone  the  immor- 
tal and  divine. 

Earth's  lower  things — her  pride,  her  fame,  her  science, 

learning,  wealth,  and  power — 
Slow  growths  that  through  long  ages  came,  or  fruits 

of  some  convulsive  hour, 
Whose  very  memory   must   decay — Heaven    is    too 

pure  for  such  as  they. 


208  BEYOND. 

They  are  complete  :  their  work  is  done.     So  let  them 

sleep  in  endless  rest. 
Love's  life  is  only  here  begun,  nor  is,  nor  can  be, 

fully  blest ; 
It  has  no  room  to  spread  its  wings,  amid  this  crowd 

of  meaner  things. 

Just  for  the  very  shadow  thrown  upon  its  sweetness 

here  below, 
The  cross  that  it  must  bear  alone,  and  bloody  baptism 

of  woe, 
Crowned  and  completed  through  its  pain,  we  know 

that  it  shall  rise  again. 

So  if  its  flame  burn  pure  and  bright,  here,  where  our 

air  is  dark  and  dense, 
And  nothing  in  this  world  of  night  lives  with  a  living 

so  intense ; 
When  it  shall  reach  its  home  at  length — how  bright 

its  light !  how  strong  its  strength ! 

And  while  the  vain  weak  loves  of  earth  (for  such  base 

counterfeits  abound) 
Shall  perish  with  what  gave  them  birth — their  graves 

are  green  and  fresh  around, 
No  funeral  song  shall  need  to  rise  for  the  true  Love 

that  never  dies. 

If  in  my  heart  I  now  could  fear  that,  risen  again,  we 

should  not  know 
What  was  our  Life  of  Life  when  here, — the  hearts  we 

loved  so  much  below, — 
I  would  arise  this  very  day,  and  cast  so  poor  a  thing 

away. 


A  WARNING.  209 

But  Love  is  no  such  soulless  clod :  living,  perfected 

it  shall  rise 
Transfigured  in  the  light  of  God,  and  giving  glory  to 

the  skies : 
And  that  which  makes  this  life  so  sweet  shall  render 

Heaven's  joy  complete. 


A  WARNING. 

PLACE  your  hands  in  mine,  dear, 
With  their  rose-leaf  touch  : 

If  you  heed  my  warning, 
It  will  spare  you  much. 

Ah !  with  just  such  smiling 

Unbelieving  eyes, 
Years  ago  I  heard  it : — 

You  shall  be  more  wise. 

You  have  one  great  treasure, 

Joy  for  all  your  life  ; 
Do  not  let  it  perish 

In  one  reckless  strife. 

Do  not  venture  all,  child, 
In  one  frail,  weak  heart ; 

So,  through  any  shipwreck, 
You  may  save  a  part. 

Where  your  soul  is  tempted 

Most  to  trust  your  fate, 
14 


210  A  WARNING. 

There,  with  double  caution, 
Linger,  fear,  and  wait. 

Measure  all  you  give,  still 
Counting  what  you  take  ; 

Love  for  love,  so  placing 
Each  an  equal  stake. 

Treasure  love ;  though  ready 

Still  to  live  without, 
In  your  fondest  trust,  keep 

Just  one  thread  of  doubt. 

Build  on  no  to-morrow ; 

Love  has  but  to-day  : 
If  the  links  seem  slackening, 

Cut  the  bond  away. 

Trust  no  prayer  nor  promise ; 

Words  are  grains  of  sand : 
To  keep  your  heart  unbroken, 

Hold  it  in  your  hand. 

That  your  love  may  finish 

Calm  as  it  begun, 
Learn  this  lesson  better, 

Dear,  than  I  have  done. 

Years  hence,  perhaps,  this  warning 

You  shall  give  again, 
In  just  the  self-same  words,  dear, 
And — just  as  much — in  vain. 


MAXIMUS. 


MAXIMUS. 

MANY,  if  God  should  make  them  kings, 
Might  not  disgrace  the  throne  He  gave ; 

How  few  who  could  as  well  fulfil 
The  holier  office  of  a  slave  ! 

I  hold  him  great  who,  for  Love's  sake, 
Can  give,  with  generous,  earnest  will, — 

Yet  he  who  takes  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
I  think  I  hold  more  generous  still. 

I  prize  the  instinct  that  can  turn 

From  vain  pretence  with  proud  disdain  ; 

Yet  more  I  prize  a  simple  heart 
Paying  credulity  with  pain. 

I  bow  before  the  noble  mind 

That  freely  some  great  wrong  forgives ; 
Yet  nobler  is  the  one  forgiven, 

Who  bears  that  burden  well,  and  lives. 

It  may  be  hard  to  gain,  and  still 
To  keep  a  lowly  steadfast  heart ; 

Yet  he  who  loses  has  to  fill 
A  harder  and  a  truer  part. 

Glorious  it  is  to  wear  the  crown 
Of  a  deserved  and  pure  success  ; — 

He  who  knows  how  to  fail  has  won 
A  crown  whose  lustre  is  not  less. 


212  OPTIMUS. 

Great  may  he  be  who  can  command 
And  rule  with  just  and  tender  sway; 

Yet  is  diviner  wisdom  taught 
Better  by  him  who  can  obey. 

Blessed  are  those  who  die  for  God, 
And  earn  the  Martyr's  crown  of  light ; 

Yet  he  who  lives  for  God  may  be 
A  greater  Conqueror  in  His  sight. 


OPTIMUS. 

THERE  is  a  deep  and  subtle  snare 
Whose  sure  temptation  hardly  fails, 
Which,  just  because  it  looks  so  fair, 
Only  a  noble  heart  assails. 

So  all  the  more  we  need  be  strong 
Against  this  false  and  seeming  Right; 
Which  none  the  less  is  deadly  wrong, 
Because  it  glitters  clothed  in  light. 

When  duties  unfulfilled  remain, 
Or  noble  works  are  Je.ft  unplanned, 
Or  when  great  deeds  cry  out  in  vain 
On  coward  heart  and  trembling  hand, — 

Then  will  a  seeming  Angel  speak  : — 
44  The  hours  are  fleeting — great  the  need- 
If  thou  art  strong  and  others  weak, 
Thine  be  the  effort  and  the  deed. 


OPTIMUS.  213 

"  Deaf  are  their  ears  who  ought  to  hear ; 
Idle  their  hands,  and  dull  their  soul ; 
While  sloth,  or  ignorance,  or  fear, 
Fetters  them  with  a  blind  control. 

"  Sort  thou  the  tangled  web  aright ; 
Take  thou  the  toil,  take  thou  the  pain : 
For  fear  the  hour  begin  its  flight, 
While  Right  and  Duty  plead  in  vain." 

And  now  it  is  I  bid  thee  pause, 
Nor  let  this  Tempter  bend  thy  will ; 
There  are  diviner,  truer  laws 
That  teach  a  nobler  lesson  still. 

Learn  that  each  duty  makes  its  claim 
Upon  one  soul :  not  each  on  all. 
How,  if  God  speaks  thy  Brother's  name, 
Dare  thou  make  answer  to  the  call  ? 

The  greater  peril  in  the  strife, 
The  less  this  evil  should  be  done  ; 
For  as  in  battle,  so  in  life, 
Danger  and  honor  still  are  one. 

Arouse  him  then  : — this  is  thy  part: 
Show  him  the  claim  ;  point  out  the  need  ; 
And  nerve  his  arm,  and  cheer  his  heart ; 
Then  stand  aside,  and  say,  "  Godspeed !  " 

Smooth  thou  his  path  ere  it  is  trod : 
Burnish  his  arms  that  he  must  wield  ; 
And  pray,  with  all  thy  strength,  that  God 
May  crown  him  Victor  of  the  fieJd. 


214  A  LOST  CHORD. 

And  then,  I  think,  thy  soul  shall  feel 
A  nobler  thrill  of  true  content, 
Than  if  presumptuous,  eager  zeal 
Had  seized  a  crown  for  others  meant. 

And  even  that  very  deed  shall  shine 
In  mystic  sense,  divine  and  true, 
More  wholly  and  more  purely  thine — 
Because  it  is  another's  too. 


A  LOST  CHORD. 

SEATED  one  day  at  the  Organ, 
I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease, 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing, 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  then  ; 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  great  Amen. 

It  flooded  the  crimson  twilight, 
Like  the  close  of  an  Angel's  Psalm, 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming  strife ; 

It  seemed  the  harmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  life. 


TOO  LATE.  215 

It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 

Into  one  perfect  peace, 
And  trembled  away  into  silence 

As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 

That  one  lost  chord  divine, 
Which  came  from  the  soul  of  the  Organ, 

And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  angel 
Will  speak  in  that  chord  again, 

It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven 
I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


TOO  LATE. 

HUSH  !  speak  low  ;  tread  softly  ; 

Draw  the  sheet  aside  ; — 
Yes,  she  does  look  peaceful ; 

With  that  smile  she  died. 

Yet  stern  want  and  sorrow 

Even  now  you  trace 
On  the  wan,  worn  features 

Of  the  still  white  face. 

Restless,  helpless,  hopeless, 
Was  her  bitter  part ; — 

Now — how  still  the  Violets 
Lie  upon  her  heart ! 


216  TOO  LATE. 

She  who  toiled  and  labored 
For  her  daily  bread ; 

See  the  velvet  hangings 
Of  this  stately  bed. 

Yes,  they  did  forgive  her ; 

Brought  her  home  at  last; 
Strove  to  cover  over 

Their  relentless  past. 

Ah,  they  would  have  given 
Wealth,  and  home,  and  pride 

To  see  her  just  look  happy 
Once  before  she  died ! 

They  strove  hard  to  please  her, 
But,  when  death  is  near, 

All  you  know  is  deadened, 
Hope,  and  joy,  and  fear. 

And  besides,  one  sorrow 
Deeper  still — one  pain 

Was  beyond  them  :  healing 
Came  to-day — in  vain ! 

If  she  had  but  lingered 
Just  a  few  hours  more  ; 

Or  had  this  letter  reached  her 
Just  one  day  before  ! 

I  can  almost  pity 

Even  him  to-day ; 
Though  he  let  this  anguish 

Eat  her  heart  away. 


THE  REQUITAL.  217 

Yet  she  never  blamed  him ; — 

One  day  you  shall  know 
How  this  sorrow  happened ; 

It  was  long  ago. 

I  have  read  the  letter ; 

Many  a  weary  year, 
For  one  word  she  hungered, 

There  are  thousands  here. 

If  she  could  but  hear  it, 

Could  but  understand ; 
See, — I  put  the  letter 

In  her  cold  white  hand. 

Even  these  words,  so  longed  for, 

Do  not  stir  her  rest ; 
Well,  I  should  not  murmur, 

For  God  judges  best. 

She  needs  no  more  pity, — 

But  I  mourn  his  fate, 
When  he  hears  his  letter 

Came  a  day  too  late. 


THE  REQUITAL. 

LOUD  roared  the  Tempest, 
Fast  fell  the  sleet ; 

A  little  Child  Angel 
Passed  down  the  street, 

With  trailing  pinions, 
And  weary  feet. 


218  THE  REQUITAL. 

The  moon  was  hidden  ; 

No  stars  were  bright ; 
So  she  could  not  shelter 

In  heaven  that  night, 
For  the  Angel's  ladders 

Are  rays  of  light. 

She  beat  her  wings 
At  each  window-pane, 

And  pleaded  for  shelter, 
But  all  in  vain  ; — 

"Listen,"  they  said, 
"  To  the  pelting  rain ! " 

She  sobbed  as  the  laughter 
And  mirth  grew  higher, 

"  Give  me  rest  and  shelter 
Beside  your  fire, 

And  I  will  give  you 
Your  heart's  desire." 

The  dreamer  sat  watching 

His  embers  gleam, 
While  his  heart  was  floating 
Down  hope's  bright  stream ; 
.  .  So  he  wove  her  wailing, 
Into  his  dream. 

The  worker  toiled  on, 
For  his  time  was  brief  ; 


THE  REQUITAL.  219 

The  mourner  was  nursing 

Her  own  pale  grief; 
They  heard  not  the  promise 

That  brought  relief. 

But  fiercer  the  Tempest 

Rose  than  before, 
When  the  Angel  paused 

At  a  humble  door, 
And  asked  for  shelter 

And  help  once  more. 

A  weary  woman, 

Pale,  worn,  and  thin, 
With  the  brand  upon  her 

Of  want  and  sin, 
Heard  the  Child  Angel 

And  took  her  in. 

Took  her  in  gently, 

And  did  her  best 
To  dry  her  pinions  ; 

And  made  her  rest 
With  tender  pity 

Upon  her  breast. 

When  the  eastern  morning 

Grew  bright  and  red, 
Up  the  first  sunbeam 

The  Angel  fled ; 
Having  kissed  the  woman 

And  left  her — dead. 


220  RETURNED— "  MISSING." 

RETURNED  — "  MISSING." 

(FIVE  YEARS    AFTER.) 

YES,  I  was  sad  and  anxious, 
But  now,  dear,  I  am  gay  ; 

I  know  that  it  is  wisest 
To  put  all  hope  away  : — 

Thank  God  that  I  have  done  so, 
And  can  be  calm  to-day ! 

For  hope  deferred — you  know  it — 
Once  made  my  heart  so  sick  : 

Now,  I  expect  no  longer  ; 
It  is  but  the  old  trick 

Of  hope,  that  makes  me  tremble, 
And  makes  my  heart  beat  quick. 

All  day  I  sit  here  calmly  ; 

Not  as  I  did  before, 
Watching  for  one  whose  footstep 

Comes  never,  never  more.  .  . 
Hush !  was  that  some  one  passing, 

Who  paused  beside  the  door? 

For  years  I  hung  on  chances, 
Longing  for  just  one  word  ; 

At  last  I  feel  it : — silence 

Will  never  more  be  stirred.  .  . 

Tell  me  once  more  that  rumor 
You  fancied  you  had  heard. 


KETURNED— "  MISSING."  221 

Life  has  more  things  to  dwell  on 

Than  just  one  useless  pain, 
Useless  and  past  forever ; 

But  noble  things  remain, 
And  wait  us  all :  .  .  .     you  too,  dear, 

Do  you  think  hope  vain  ? 

All  others  have  forgotten, 

'Tis  right  I  should  forget, 
Nor  live  on  a  keen  longing 

Which  shadows  forth  regret : 
Are  not  the  letters  coming  ? 

The  sun  is  almost  set. 

Now  that  my  restless  legion 

Of  hopes  and  fears  is  fled, 
Reading  is  joy  and  comfort.  .  . 

.  .  .  This  very  day  I  read, 
O,  such  a  strange  returning 

Of  one  whom  all  thought  dead ! 

Not  that  I  dream  or  fancy, 

You  know  all  that  is  past ; 
Earth  has  no  hope  to  give  me, 

And  yet — Time  flies  so  fast 
That  all  but  the  impossible 

Might  be  brought  back  at  last. 


222  IN  THE  WOOD. 


IN  THE  WOOD. 

IN  the  wood  where  shadows  are  deepest 

From  the  branches  overhead, 
Where  the  wild  wood-strawberries  cluster, 

And  the  softest  moss  is  spread, 
I  met  to-day  with  a  fairy, 

And  I  followed  her  where  she  led. 

Some  magical  words  she  uttered, 

I  alone  could  understand, 
For  the  sky  grew  bluer  and  brighter ; 

While  there  rose  on  either  hand 
The  cloudy  walls  of  a  palace 

That  was  built  in  Fairy-land. 

And  I  stood  in  a  strange  enchantment ; 

I  had  known  it  all  before  : 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  was  the  magic 

Of  days  that  will  come  no  more, 
The  magic  of  joy  departed, 

That  Time  can  never  restore. 

That  never,  ah,  never,  never, 

Never  again  can  be  : — 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  powerful  fairy 

Built  up  this  palace  for  me  ? 
It  was  only  a  little  white  Violet 

I  found  at  the  root  of  a  tree. 


TWO  WORLDS.  223 


TWO  WORLDS. 

GOD'S  world  is  bathed  in  beauty, 
God's  world  is  steeped  in  light ; 

It  is  the  self -same  glory 

That  makes  the  day  so  bright, 

Which  thrills  the  earth  with  music, 
Or  hangs  the  stars  in  night. 

Hid  in  earth's  mines  of  silver, 
Floating  on  clouds  above, — 

Ringing  in  Autumn's  tempest, 
Murmured  by  every  dove, — 

One  thought  fills  God's  creation, 
His  own  great  name  of  Love  ! 

In  God's  world  Strength  is  lovely, 

And  so  is  Beauty  strong, 
And  Light — God's  glorious  shadow — 

To  both  great  gifts  belong ; 
And  they  all  melt  into  sweetness, 

And  fill  the  earth  with  Song. 

Above  God's  world  bends  Heaven, 
With  day's  kiss  pure  and  bright, 

Or  folds  her  still  more  fondly 
In  the  tender  shade  of  night ; 

And  she  casts  back  Heaven's  sweetness, 
In  fragrant  love  and  light. 


224  TWO  WORLDS. 

God's  world  has  one  great  echo  ; 

Whether  calm  blue  mists  are  curled, 
Or  lingering  dew-drops  quiver, 

Or  red  storms  are  unfurled ; 
The  same  deep  love  is  throbbing 

Through  the  great  heart  of  God's  world. 

Man's  world  is  black  and  blighted, 
Steeped  through  with  self  and  sin ; 

And  should  his  feeble  purpose 
Some  feeble  good  begin, 

The  work  is  marred  and  tainted 
By  Leprosy  within. 

Man's  world  is  bleak  and  bitter ; 

Wherever  he  has  trod 
He  spoils  the  tender  beauty 

That  blossoms  on  the  sod, 
And  blasts  the  loving  Heaven 

Of  the  great,  good  world  of  God. 

There  Strength  on  coward  weakness 

In  cruel  might  will  roll ; 
Beauty  and  Joy  are  cankers 

That  eat  away  the  soul ; 
And  Love — O  God,  avenge  it — 

The  plague-spot  of  the  whole. 

Man's  world  is  Pain  and  Terror ; 
He  found  it  pure  and  fair, 


A  NEW  MOTHER.  £25 

And  wove  in  nets  of  sorrow 

The  golden  summer  air. 
Black,  hideous,  cold,  and  dreary, 

Man's  curse,  not  God's,  is  there. 

And  yet  God's  world  is  speaking : 

Man  will  not  hear  it  call ; 
But  listens  where  the  echoes 

Of  his  own  discord  fall, 
Then  clamors  back  to  Heaven 

That  God  has  done  it  all. 

O  God,  man's  heart  is  darkened, 

He  will  not  understand  ! 
Show  him  Thy  cloud  and  fire ; 

And,  with  Thine  own  right  hand, 
Then  lead  him  through  his  desert, 

Back  to  Thy  Holy  Land  ! 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 

I  WAS  with  my  lady  when  she  died : 
I  it  was  who  guided  her  weak  hand 

For  a  blessing  on  each  little  head, 

Laid  her  baby  by  her  on  the  bed, 
Heard  the  words  they  could  not  understand. 

And  I  drew  them  round  my  knee  that  night, 
Hushed  their  childish  glee,  and  made  them  say 
They  would  keep  her  words  with  loving  tears, 
They  would  not  forget  her  dying  fears 
Lest  the  thought  of  her  should  fade  away. 
<.     15 


220  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

I,  who  guessed  what  her  last  dread  had  been, 
Made  a  promise  to  that  still,  cold  face, 
That  her  children's  hearts,  at  any  cost, 
Should  be  with  the  mother  they  had  lost, 
When  a  stranger  came  to  take  her  place. 

And  I  knew  so  much !  for  I  had  lived 
With  my  lady  since  her  childhood  :  known 
What  her  young  and  happy  days  had  been, 
And  the  grief  no  other  eyes  had  seen 
I  had  watched  and  sorrowed  for  alone. 


Ah  !  she  once  had  such  a  happy  smile  ! 

I  had  known  how  sorely  she  was  tried  : 

Six  short  years  before,  her  eyes  were  bright 
As  her  little  blue-eyed  May's  that  night, 

When  she  stood  by  her  dead  mother's  side. 

No,  I  will  not  say  he  was  unkind  ; 

But  she  had  been  used  to  love  and  praise. 
He  was  somewhat  grave, — perhaps,  in  truth, 
Could  not  weave  her  joyous,  smiling  youth 

Into  all  his  stern  and  serious  ways. 

She,  who  should  have  reigned  a  blooming  flower, 
First  in  pride  and  honor,  as  in  grace, — 
She,  whose  will  had  once  ruled  all  around, 
Queen  and  darling  of  us  all, — she  found 
Change  indeed  in  that  cold,  stately  place. 


A  NEW  MOTHER.  227 

Yet  she  would  not  blame  him,  even  to  me, 
Though  she  often  sat  and  wept  alone  ; 
But  she  could  not  hide  it  near  her  death, 
When  she  said  with  her  last  struggling  breath, 
*'  Let  my  babies  still  remain  my  own  !  " 


I  it  was  who  drew  the  sheet  aside, 
When  he  saw  his  dead  wife's  face.     That  test 
Seemed  to  strike  right  to  his  heart.     He  said, 
In  a  strange,  low  whisper,  to  the  dead, 
"  God  knows,  love,  I  did  it  for  the  best !  " 

And  he  wept — O  yes,  I  will  be  just — 
When  I  brought  the  children  to  him  there, 

Wondering  sorrow  in  their  baby  eyes ; 

And  he  soothed  them  with  his  fond  replies, 
Bidding  me  give  double  love  and  care. 

Ah,  I  loved  them  well  for  her  dear  sake : 

Little  Arthur,  with  his  serious  air : 

May,  with  all  her  mother's  pretty  ways, 
Blushing,  and  at  any  word  of  praise 

Shaking  out  her  sunny  golden  hair. 

And  the  little  one  of  all — poor  child  ! 

She  had  cost  that  dear  and  precious  life. 
Once  Sir  Arthur  spoke  my  lady's  name, 
When  the  baby's  gloomy  christening  came, 

And  he  called  her  "  Olga — like  my  wife  I " 


228  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

Save  that  time,  he  never  spoke  of  her : 
He  grew  graver,  sterner,  every  day  ,* 

And  the  children  felt  it,  for  they  dropped 
Low  their  voices,  and  their  laughter  stopped, 
While  he  stood  and  watched  them  at  their  play. 


No,  he  never  named  their  mother's  name. 
But  I  told  them  of  her :  told  them  all 

She  had  been  ;  so  gentle,  good,  and  bright ; 

And  I  always  took  them  every  night 
Where  her  picture  hung  in  the  great  hall. 

There  she  stood :  white  daisies  in  her  hand, 

And  her  red  lips  parted  as  to  speak 
With  a  smile  ;  the  blue  and  sunny  air 
Seemed  to  stir  her  floating  golden  hair, 

And  to  bring  a  faint  blush  on  her  cheek. 

Well,  so  time  passed  on ;  a  year  was  gone, 
And  Sir  Arthur  had  been  much  away. 

Then  the  news  came  !     I  shed  many  tears 
When  I  saw  the  truth  of  all  my  fears 
Rise  before  me  on  that  bitter  day. 

Any  one  but  her  I  could  have  borne ! 

But  my  lady  loved  her  as  her  friend. 

Through  their  childhood  and  their  early  youth, 
How  she  used  to  count  upon  the  truth 

Of  this  friendship  that  would  never  end  ! 


A  NEW  MOTHER.  229 

Older,  graver  than  my  lady  was, 

Whose  young,  gentle  heart  on  her  relied, 

She  would  give  advice,  and  praise,  and  blame, 
And  my  lady  leant  on  Margaret's  name, 
As  her  dearest  comfort,  help,  and  guide. 

I  had  never  liked  her,  and  I  think 

That  my  lady  grew  to  doubt  her  too, 

Since  her  marriage  ;  for  she  named  her  less, 
Never  saw  her,  and  1  used  to  guess 

At  some  secret  wrong  I  never  knew. 

That  might  be  or  not.     But  now,  to  hear 
She  would  come  and  reign  here  in  her  stead, 
With  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  a  bride  : 
Would  no  thought  reproach  her  in  her  pride 
With  the  silent  memory  of  the  dead  ? 

So,  the  day  came,  and  the  bells  rang  out, 

And  I  laid  the  children's  black  aside , 
And  I  held  each  little  trembling  hand, 
As  I  strove  to  make  them  understand 

They  must  greet  their  father's  new-made  bride. 


Ah,  Sir  Arthur  might  look  grave  and  stern, 
And  his  lady's  eyes  might  well  grow  dim, 
When  the  children  shrank  in  fear  away, — 
Little  Arthur  hid  his  face,  and  May 
Would  not  raise  her  eyes,  or  speak  to  him. 


230  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

When  Sir  Arthur  bade  them  greet  their  "  mother," 
I  was  forced  to  chide,  yet  proud  to  hear 
How  my  little  loving  May  replied, 
With  her  mother's  pretty  air  of  pride, — 
"  Our  dear  mother  has  been  dead  a  year !  " 


Ah,  the  lady's  tears  might  well  fall  fast, 
As  she  kissed  them,  and  then  turned  away. 
She  might  strive  to  smile  or  to  forget, 
But  I  think  some  shadow  of  regret 
Must  have  risen  to  blight  her  wedding-day. 

She  had  some  strange  touch  of  self-reproach ; 

For  she  used  to  linger  day  by  day, 
By  the  nursery  door,  or  garden  gate, 
With  a  sad,  calm,  wistful  look,  and  wait, 

Watching  the  three  children  at  their  play. 

But  they  always  shrank  away  from  her 
When  she  strove  to  comfort  their  alarms, 

And  their  grave,  cold  silence  to  beguile : 

Even  little  Olga's  baby-smile 
Quivered  into  tears  when  in  her  arms. 

I  could  never  chide  them :  for  I  saw 
How  their  mother's  memory  grew  more  deep 
In  their  hearts.     Each  night  I  had  to  tell 
Stories  of  her  whom  I  loved  so  well 
When  a  child,  to  send  them  off  to  sleep. 


A  NEW  MOTHER.  231 

But  Sir  Arthur — O,  this  was  too  hard ! — 
He,  who  had  been  always  stern  and  sad 
In  my  lady's  time,  seemed  to  rejoice 
Each  day  more  ;  and  I  could  hear  his  voice 
Even,  sounding  younger  and  more  glad. 

He  might  perhaps  have  blamed  them,  but  his  wife 
Never  failed  to  take  the  children's  part : 
She  would  stay  him  with  her  pleading  tone, 
Saying  she  would  strive,  and  strive  alone, 
Till  she  gained  each  little  wayward  heart. 


And  she  strove  indeed,  she  seemed  to  be 
Always  waiting  for  their  love,  in  vain  ; 

Yet,  when  May  had  most  her  mother's  look, 
Then  the  lady's  calm,  cold  accent  shook 
With  some  memory  of  reproachful  pain. 

Little  May  would  never  call  her  mother : 
So,  one  day  the  lady,  bending  low, 

Kissed  her  golden  curls,  and  softly  said, 
"  Sweet  one,  call  me  Margaret,  instead, — 
Your  dear  mother  used  to  call  me  so." 

She  was  gentle,  kind,  and  patient  too, 
Yet  in  vain  :  the  children  held  apart. 
Ah,  their  mother's  gentle  memory  dwelt 
Near  them,  and  her  little  orphans  felt 
-She  had  the  first  claim  upon  their  heart. 


232  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

So  three  years  passed  ;  than  the  war  broke  out ; 

Aud  a  rumor  seemed  to  spread  and  rise  ; 
First  we  guessed  what  sorrow  must  befall, 
Then  all  doubt  fled,  for  we  read  it  all 

In  the  depths  of  her  despairing  eyes. 

Yes ;  Sir  Arthur  had  been  called  away 
To  that  scene  of  slaughter,  fear,  and  strife, — 
Now  he  seemed  to  know  with  double  pain 
The  cold,  bitter  gulf  that  must  remain 
To  divide  his  children  from  his  wife. 

Nearer  came  the  day  he  was  to  sail, 
Deeper  grew  the  coming  woe  and  fear, 
When,  one  night,  the  children  at  my  knee 
Knelt  to  say  their  evening  prayer  to  me, 
I  looked  up  and  saw  Sir  Arthur  near. 

There  they  knelt  with  folded  hands,  and  said 
Low,  soft  words  in  stammering  accents  sweet ; 
In  the  firelight  shone  their  golden  hair 
And  white  robes  :  my  darlings  looked  so  fair, 
With  their  little  bare  and  rosy  feet ! 

There  he  waited  till  their  low  "  Amen  ! " 
Stopped  the  rosy  lips  raised  for  "  Good  night !  "• 
Drew  them  with  a  fond  clasp,  close  and  near, 
As  he  bade  them  stay  with  him,  and  hear 
Something  that  would  make  his  heart  more  light. 


A  NEW  MOTHER.  233 

Little  Olga  crept  into  his  arms ; 

Arthur  leant  upon  his  shoulder  ;  May 
Knelt  beside  him,  with  her  earnest  eyes 
Lifted  up  in  patient,  calm  surprise, — 

I  can  almost  hear  his  words  to-day. 


"  Years  ago,  my  children,  years  ago, 
When  your  mother  was  a  child,  she  came 
From  her  Northern  home,  and  here  she  met 
Love  for  love,  and  comfort  for  regret, 
In  one  early  friend, — you  know  her  name. 

"  And  this  friend — a  few  years  older — gave 
Such  fond  care,  such  love,  that  day  by  day 
The  new  home  grew  happy,  joy  complete, 
Studies  easier,  and  play  more  sweet, 
While  all  childish  sorrows  passed  away. 

"  And  your  mother — fragile,  like  my  May — 
Leant  on  this  deep  love, — nor  leant  in  vain. 

For  this  friend  (strong,  generous,  noble  heart !) 
Gave  the  sweet,  and  took  the  bitter  part, — 
Brought  her  all  the  joy,  and  kept  the  pain. 

"  Years  passed  on,  and  then  I  saw  them  first : 
It  was  hard  to  say  which  was  most  fair, 

Your  sweet  mother's  bright  and  blushing  face, 
Or  the  graver  Margaret's  stately  grace ; 
-Golden  locks,  or  braided  raven  hair. 


234  A  NEW  MOTHER. 

**  Then  it  happened,  by  a  strange,  sad  fate, 
One  thought  entered  into  each  young  soul  : 

Joy  for  one — if  for  the  other  pain ; 

Loss  for  one — if  for  the  other  gain : 
One  must  lose,  and  one  possess  the  whole. 


"  And  so  this — this — what  they  cared  for — came 
And  belonged  to  Margaret :  was  her  own. 
But  she  laid  the  gift  aside,  to  take 
Pain  and  sorrow  for  your  mother's  sake, 
And  none  knew  it  but  herself  alone. 

"  Then  she  travelled  far  away,  and  none 
The  strange  mystery  of  her  absence  knew. 
Margaret's  secret  thought  was  never  told  : 
Even  your  mother  thought  her  changed  and  cold, 
And  for  many  years  I  thought  so  too. 

"  She  was  gone ;  and  then  your  mother  took 
That  poor  gift  which  Margaret  laid  aside : 
Flower,  or  toy,  or  trinket,  matters  not : 
What  it  was  had  better  be  forgot  .  .  . 
It  was  just  then  she  became  my  bride. 

"  Now,  I  think  May  knows  the  hope  I  have. 

Arthur,  darling,  can  you  guess  the  rest  ? 
Even  my  little  Olga  understands 
Great  gifts  can  be  given  by  little  hands, 

Since  of  all  gifts  Love  is  still  the  best. 


GIVE  PLACE.  235 

"  Margaret  is  my  dear  and  honored  wife 
And  I  hold  her  so.     But  she  can  claim 

From  your  hearts,  dear  ones,  a  loving  debt 

I  can  neither  pay,  nor  yet  forget : 
You  can  give  it  in  your  mother's  name. 

"  Earth  spoils  even  Love,  and  here  a  shade 
On  the  purest,  noblest  heart  may  fall : 
Now  your  mother  dwells  in  perfect  light, 
She  will  bless  us,  I  believe,  to-night, — 
She  is  happy  now,  and  she  knows  all." 

Next  day  was  farewell, — a  day  of  tears ; 

Yet  Sir  Arthur,  as  he  rode  away, 

And  turned  back  to  see  his  lady  stand 
With  the  children  clinging  to  her  hand, 

Looked  as  if  it  were  a  happy  day. 

Ah,  they  loved  her  soon  !     The  little  one 

Crept  into  her  arms  as  to  a  nest ; 

Arthur  always  with  her  now ;  and  May 
Growing  nearer  to  her  every  day: — 
-Well,  I  loved  my  own  dear  lady  best. 


GIVE  PLACE. 

STARRY  Crowns  of  Heaven 

Set  in  azure  night ! 
Linger  yet  a  little 

Ere  you  hide  your  light : — 

— Nay  ;  let  Starlight  fade  away, 
Heralding  'the  day ! 


230  MY  WILL. 

Snow-flakes  pure  and  spotless, 

Still,  O,  still  remain, 
Binding  dreary  winter, 
In  your  silver  chain  : — 

— Nay  ;  but  melt  at  once  and  bring 
Radiant  sunny  Spring ! 

Blossoms,  gentle  blossoms, 

Do  not  wither  yet  ; 
Still  for  you  the  sun  shines, 

Still  the  dews  are  wet : — 

— Nay ;  but  fade  and  wither  fast, 

Fruit  must  come  at  last ! 

Joy,  so  true  and  tender, 

Dare  you  not  abide  ? 
Will  you  spread  your  pinions, 
Must  you  leave  our  side  ? 

— Nay  ;  an  Angel's  shining  grace 
Waits  to  fill  your  place  ! 


MY  WILL. 

SINCE  I  have  no  lands  or  houses, 

And  no  hoarded  golden  store, 
What  can  I  leave  those  who  love  me 

When  they  see  my  face  no  more  ? 
Do  not  smile  ;  I  am  not  jesting, 

Though  my  words  sound  gay  and  light. 
Listen  to  me,  dearest  Alice, 

I  will  make  my  Will  to-night. 


MY  WILL.  237 

First  for  Mabel, — who  will  never 

Let  the  dust  of  future  years 
Dim  the  thought  of  me,  but  keep  it 

Brighter  still :  perhaps  with  tears. 
In  whose  eyes,  whate'er  I  glance  at, 

Touch,  or  praise,  will  always  shine, 
Through  a  strange  and  sacred  radiance, 

By  Love's  Charter,  wholly  mine  ; 
She  will  never  lend  to  others 

Slenderest  link  of  thought  I  claim, 
I  will,  therefore,  to  her  keeping 

Leave  my  memory  and  my  name. 

Bertha  will  do  truer  service 

To  her  kind  than  I  have  done, 
So  I  leave  to  her  young  spirit 

The  long  work  I  have  begun. 
Well !  the  threads  are  tangled,  broken, 

And  the  colors  do  not  blend, 
She  will  bend  her  earnest  striving 

Both  to  finish  and  amend  : 
And,  when  it  is  all  completed, 

Strong  with  care  and  rich  with  skill, 
Just  because  my  hands  began  it, 

She  will  love  it  better  still. 


Ruth  shall  have  my  dearest  token, 
The  one  link  I  dread  to  break, 

The  one  duty  that  I  live  for, 
She,  when  I  am  gone,  will  take. 


238  MY  WILL. 

Sacred  is  the  trust  I  leave  her, 

Needing  patience,  prayer,  and  tears ; 
I  have  striven  to  fulfil  it, 

As  she  knows,  these  many  years. 
Sometimes  hopeless,  faint,  and  weary 

Yet  a  blessing  shall  remain 
With  the  task,  arid  Ruth  will  prize  it, 

For  my  many  hours  of  pain. 


What  must  I  leave  you,  my  Alice  ? 

Nothing,  Love,  to  do  or  bear, 
Nothing  that  can  dim  your  blue  eyes 

With  the  slightest  cloud  of  care. 
I  will  leave  my  heart  to  love  you, 

With  the  tender  faith  of  old ; 
Still  to  comfort,  warm  and  light  you, 

Should  your  life  grow  dark  or  cold, 
No  one  else,  my  child,  can  claim  it ; 

Though  you  find  old  scars  of  pain, 
They  were  only  wounds,  my  darling, 

There  is  not,  I  trust,  one  stain. 

Are  my  gifts  indeed  so  worthless 

Now  the  slender  sum  is  told? 
Well,  I  know  not :  years  may  bless  them 

With  a  nobler  price  than  gold. 
Am  I  poor  ?  ah  no,  most  wealthy, 

Not  in  these  poor  gifts  you  take, 
But  in  the  true  hearts  that  tell  me 

You  will  keep  them  for  my  sake. 


KING  AND  SLAVE. 


KING  AND  SLAVE. 

IF  in  my  soul,  dear, 

An  omen  should  dwell, 
Bidding  me  pause,  ere 

I  love  thee  too  well ; 
If  the  whole  circle 

Of  noble  and  wise, 
With  stern  forebodings, 

Between  us  should  rise  ; — 

I  will  tell  them,  dear, 

That  Love  reigns — a  King, 
Where  storms  cannot  reach  him, 

And  words  cannot  sting ; 
He  counts  it  dishonor 

His  faith  to  recall ; 
He  trusts ; — and  forever 

He  gives— and  gives  all ! 

I  will  tell  thee,  dear, 

That  Love  is — a  Slave, 
Who  dreads  thought  of  freedom, 

As  life  dreads  the  grave ; 
And  if  doubt  or  peril 

Of  change  there  may  be, 
Such  fear  would  but  drive  him 

Still  nearer  to  thee ! 


240  A  CHANT. 


A  CHANT. 

"  Benedictus  qui  venit  in  nomine  Domini." 
I. 

WHO  is  the  Angel  that  cometh? 

Life ! 
Let  us  not  question  what  he  brings, 

Peace  or  Strife  ; 
Under  the  shade  of  his  mighty  wings, 

One  by  one, 
Are  his  secrets  told ; 

One  by  one, 

Lit  by  the  rays  of  each  morning  sun, 
Shall  a  new  flower  its  petals  unfold, 
With  the  mystery  hid  in  its  heart  of  gold, 
We  will  arise  and  go  forth  to  greet  him, 

Singly,  gladly,  with  one  accord; — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

n. 

Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh? 

Joy! 
Look  at  his  glittering  rainbow  wings, — 

No  alloy 
Lies  in  the  radiant  gifts  he  brings ; 

Tender  and  sweet, 
He  is  come  to-day, 

Tender  and  sweet: 


A  CHANT.  241 

While  chains  of  love  on  his  silver  feet 
Will  hold  him  in  lingering  fond  delay. 
But  greet  him  quickly,  he  will  not  stay, 
Soon  he  will  leave  us  ;  but  though  for  others 

All  his  brightest  treasures  are  stored, — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord ! " 


in. 

Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh  ? 

Pain! 
Let  us  arise  and  go  forth  to  greet  him ; 

Not  in  vain 
Is  the  summons  come  for  us  to  meet  himj; 

He  will  stay, 
And  darken  our  sun ; 

He  will  stay 
A  desolate  night,  a  weary  day. 

Since  in  that  shadow  our  work  is  done, 
And  in  that  shadow  our  crowns  are  won, 
Let  us  say  still,  while  his  bitter  chalice 

Slowly  into  our  hearts  is  poured, — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord !  " 

IV. 

Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh  ? 

Death ! 
But  do  not  shudder  and  do  not  fear ; 

Hold  your  breath, 


242  DREAM- LIFE. 

For  a  kingly  presence  is  drawing  near, 

Cold  and  bright 
Is  his  flashing  steel, 
Cold  and  bright 

The  smile  that  comes  like  a  starry  light 
To  calm  the  terror  and  grief  we  feel ; 
He  comes  to  help  and  to  save  and  heal : 
Then  let  us,  baring  our  hearts  and  kneeling 
Sing,  while  we  wait  this  Angel's  sword, — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord !  " 


DREAM-LIFE. 

LISTEN,  friend,  and  I  will  tell  you 
Why  I  sometimes  seem  so  glad, 

Then,  without  a  reason,  changing, 
Soon  become  so  grave  and  sad. 

Half  my  life  I  live  a  beggar, 
Ragged,  helpless,  and  alone ; 

But  the  other  half  a  monarch, 

With  my  courtiers  round  my  throne. 

Half  my  life  is  full  of  sorrow, 
Half  of  joy,  so  fresh  and  new ; 

One  of  these  lives  is  a  fancy, 
But  the  other  one  is  true. 


REST.  243 

While  I  live  aud  feast  on  gladness, 

Still  I  feel  the  thought  remain, 
This  must  soon  end, — nearer,  nearer, 

Comes  the  life  of  grief  and  pain. 

While  I  live  a  wretched  beggar, 
One  bright  hope  my  lot  can  cheer; 

Soon,  soon  thou  shall  have  thy  kingdom, 
Brighter  hours  are  drawing  near. 

So  you  see  my  life  is  twofold, 

Half  a  pleasure,  half  a  grief ; 
Thus  all  joy  is  somewhat  tempered, 

And  all  sorrow  finds  relief. 

Which,  you  ask  me,  is  the  real  life, 
Which  the  dream, — the  joy  or  woe  ? 

Hush,  friend  !  it  is  little  matter, 
And,  indeed — I  never  know. 


REST. 

SPREAD,  spread  thy  silver  wings,  O  Dove ! 
And  seek  for  rest  by  land  and  sea, 
And  bring  the  tidings  back  to  me 
For  thee  and  me  and  those  I  love. 

Look  how  my  Dove  soars  far  away  ; 

Go  with  her,  heart  of  mine,  I  pray ; 

Go  where  her  fluttering   silver  pinions 

Follow  the  track  of  the  crimson  day. 


244  BEST. 

Is  rest  where  cloudlets  slowly  creep, 
And  sobbing  winds  forget  to  grieve, 
And  quiet  waters  gently  heave, 
As  if  they  rocked  the  ship  to  sleep  ? 
Ah  no  !  that  southern  vapor  white 
Will  bring  a  tempest  ere  the  night, 
And  thunder  through  the  quiet  heaven, 
Lashing  the  sea  in  its  angry  might. 

The  battle-field  lies  still  and  cold, 
While  stars  that  watch  in  silent  light 
Gleam  here  and  there  on  weapons  bright, 
In  weary  sleepers'  slackened  hold ; 
Nay,  though  they  dream  of  no  alarm, 
One  bugle  sound  will  stir  that  calm, 
And  all  the  strength  of  two  great  nations, 
Eager  for  battle,  will  rise  and  arm. 

Pause  where  the  Pilgrims'  day  is  done, 
Where  script  and  staff  aside  are  laid, 
And,  resting  in  the  silent  shade, 
They  watch  the  slowly  sinking  sun. 
Ah  no !  that  worn  and  weary  band 
Must  journey  long  before  they  stand, 
With  bleeding  feet,  and  hearts  rejoicing, 
Kissing  the  dust  of  the  Holy  Land. 

Then  find  a  soul  who  meets  at  last 
A  noble  prize  but  hard  to  gain, 
Or  joy  long  pleaded  for  in  vain, 
Now  sweeter  for  a  bitter  past. 


THE  TYRANT  AND  THE  CAPTIVE.  245 

Ah  no !  for  Time  can  rob  her  yet, 
And  even  should  cruel  Time  forget, 
Then  Death  will  come,  and,  unrelenting, 
Brand  her  with  sorrowful  long  regret. 

Seek  farther,  farther  yet,  O  Dove  ! 
Beyond  the  Land,  beyond  the  Sea, 
There  shall  be  rest  for  thee  and  me, 
For  thee  and  me  and  those  I  love. 

I  heard  a  promise  gently  fall, 

I  heard  a  far-off  Shepherd  call 

The  weary  and  the  broken-hearted, 

Promising  rest  unto  each  and  all. 

It  is  not  marred  by  outward  strife, 
It  is  not  lost  in  calm  repose, 
It  heedeth  neither  joys  nor  woes, 
Is  not  disturbed  by  death  or  life  : 

Through,  and  beyond  them,  lies  our  Rest: 

Then  cease,  O  Heart,  thy  longing  quest ! 

And  thou,  my  Dove,  with  silver  pinions 

Flutter  again  to  thy  quiet  nest ! 


THE  TYRANT  AND  THE  CAPTIVE. 

IT  was  midnight  when  I  listened, 
And  I  heard  two  Voices  speak ; 

One  was  harsh,  and  stern,  and  cruel. 
And  the  other  soft  and  weak : 


THE  TYRANT  AND  THE  CAPTIVE. 

Yet  I  saw  no  Vision  enter, 

And  I  heard  no  steps  depart, 
Of  this  Tyrant  and  his  Captive, 

Fate   it  might  be  and  a  Heart. 

Thus  the  stern  Voice  spake  in  triumph : — 

"  I  have  shut  your  life  away 
From  the  radiant  world  of  nature, 

And  the  perfumed  light  of  day. 
You,  who  loved  to  steep  your  spirit 

In  the  charm  of  Earth's  delight, 
See  no  glory  of  the  daytime, 

And  no  sweetness  of  the  night." 

But  the  soft  Voice  answered  calmly : — 

"  Nay,  for  when  the  March  winds  bring 
Just  a  whisper  to  my  window, 

I  can  dream  the  rest  of  Spring ; 
And  to-day  I  saw  a  swallow 

Flitting  past  my  prison  bars, 
And  my  cell  has  just  one  corner 

Whence  at  night  I  see  the  stars." 

But  its  bitter  taunt  repeating, 

Cried  the  harsh  Voice  : — "  Where  are  they 
All  the  friends  of  former  hours, 

Who  forget  your  name  to-day  ? 
All  the  links  of  love  are  shattered, 

Which  you  thought  so  strong  before ; 
And  your  very  heart  is  lonely, 

And  alone  since  loved  no  more." 


THE  TYRANT  AND  THE  CAPTIVE.      247 

But  the  low  Voice  spoke  still  lower  : — 

"Nay,  I  know  the  golden  chain 
Of  my  love  is  purer,  stronger, 

For  the  cruel  fire  of  pain : 
They  remember  me  no  longer, 

But  I,  grieving  here  alone, 
Bind  their  souls  to  me  forever 

By  the  love  within  my  own." 

But  the  Voice  cried  : — "  Once  remember 

You  devoted  soul  and  mind 
To  the  welfare  of  your  brethren, 

And  the  service  of  your  kind. 
Now,  what  sorrow  can  you  comfort  ? 

You,  who  lie  in  helpless  pain, 
With  an  impotent  compassion 

Fretting  out  your  life  in  vain." 

"  Nay  ;  "  and  then  the  gentle  answer, 

Rose  more  loud,  and  full,  and  clear : 
"For  the  sake  of  all  my  brethren 

I  thank  God  that  I  am  here ! 
Poor  had  been  my  life's  best  efforts, 

Now  I  waste  no  thought  or  breath, — 
For  the  prayer  of  those  who  suffer 

Has  the  strength  of  Love  and  Death." 


248  THE  CARVER'S  LESSON. 


THE  CARVER'S  LESSON. 

TRUST  me,  no  mere  skill  of  subtle  treachery. 

No  mere  practice  of  a  dexterous  hand, 
Will  suffice,  without  a  hidden  spirit, 

That  we  may,  or  may  not,  understand. 

And  those  quaint  old  fragments  that  are  left  us 
Have  their  power  in  this, — the  Carver  brought 

Earnest  care,  and  reverent  patience,  only 
Worthily  to  clothe  some  noble  thought. 

Shut  then  in  the  petals  of  the  flowers, 
Round  the  stems  of  all  the  lilies  twine, 

Hide  beneath  each  bird's  or  angel's  pinion, 
Some  wise  meaning  or  some  thought  divine. 

Place  in  stony  hands  that  pray  forever, 
Tender  words  of  peace,  and  strive  to  wind 

Round  the  leafy  scrolls  and  fretted  niches 
Some  true,  loving  message  to  your  kind. 

Some  will  praise,  some  blame,  and,  soon  forgetting, 
Come  and  go,  nor  even  pause  to  gaze ; 

Only  now  and  then  a  passing  stranger 
Just  may  loiter  with  a  word  of  praise. 

But  I  think,  when  years  have  floated  onward, 
And  the  stone  is  gray,  and  dim,  and  old, 

And  the  hand  forgotten  that  has  carved  it, 
And  the  heart  that  dreamt  it  still  and  cold ; 


THREE  ROSES.  249 

There  may  come  some  weary  soul,  o'erladen 
With  perplexed  struggle  in  his  brain, 

Or,  it  may  be,  fretted  with  life's  turmoil, 
Or  made  sore  with  some  perpetual  pain. 

Then,  I  think  those  stony  hands  will  open, 

And  the  gentle  lilies  overflow 
With  the  blessing  and  the  loving  token 

That  you  hid  there  many  years  ago. 

And  the  tendrils  will  unroll,  and  teach  him 
How  to  solve  the  problem  of  his  pain  ; 

And  the  birds'  and  angels'  wings  shake  downward 
On  his  heart  a  sweet  and  tender  rain. 

While  he  marvels  at  his  fancy,  reading 

Meaning  in  that  quaint  and  ancient  scroll, 

Little  guessing  that  the  loving  Carver 
Left  a  message  for  his  weary  soul. 


THREE    ROSES. 

JUST  when  the  red  June  Roses  blow 
She  gave  me  one, — a  year  ago, 
A  Rose  whose  crimson  breath  revealed 
The  secret  that  its  heart  concealed, 
And  whose  half-shy,  half-tender  grace 
Blushed  back  upon  the  giver's  face. 

A  year  ago — a  year  ago — 

To  hope  was  not  to  know. 


250  MY  PICTURE  GALLERY. 

Just  when  the  red  June  Roses  blow 

I  plucked  her  one, — a  month  ago : 

Its  half-blown  crimson  to  eclipse, 

I  laid  it  on  her  smiling  lips  ; 

The  balmy  fragrance  of  the  south 

Drew  sweetness  from  her  sweeter  mouth. 

Swiftly  do  golden  hours  creep, — 

To  hold  is  not  to  keep. 

The  red  June  Roses  now  are  past, 
This  very  day  I  broke  the  last, — 
And  now  its  perfumed  breath  is  hid, 
With  her,  beneath  a  coffin-lid  ; 
There  will  its  petals  fall  apart, 
And  wither  on  her  icy  heart : 
At  three  red  Roses'  cost 
My  world  was  gained  and  lost. 


MY   PICTURE   GALLERY. 


You  write  and  think  of  me,  my  friend,  with  pity ; 
While  you  are  basking  in  the  light  of  Rome, 
Shut  up  within  the  heart  of  this  great  city, 
Too  busy  and  too  poor  to  leave  my  home. 

IT. 

You  think  my  life  debarred  all  rest  or  pleasure, 
Chained  all  day  to  my  ledger  and  my  pen  ; 
Too  sickly  even  to  use  my  little  leisure 
To  bear  me  from  the  strife  and  din  of  men. 


MY  PICTURE  GALLERY.  251 

in. 

Well,  it  is  true ;  yet,  now  the  days  are  longer, 
At  sunset  I  can  lay  my  writing  down, 
And  slowly  crawl  (summer  has    made  me  stronger) 
Just  to  the  nearest  outskirt  of  the  town. 

IV. 

There  a  wide  Common,  blackened  though  and  dreary 
With  a  factory  smoke,  spreads  outward  to  the  West ; 
I  lie  down  on  the  parched-up  grass,  if  weary, 
Or  lean  against  a  broken  wall  to  rest. 

v. 

So  might  a  King,  turning  to  Art's  rich  treasure, 
At  evening,  when  the  cares  of  state  were  done, 
Enter  his  royal  gallery,  drinking  pleasure 
Slowly  from  each  great  picture,  one  by  one. 

VI. 

Towards  the  West  I  turn  my  weary  spirit, 
And  watch  my  pictures :  one  each  night  is  mine 
Earth  and  my  soul,  sick  of  day's  toil,  inherit 
A  portion  of  that  luminous  peace  divine. 

vn. 

There  I  have  seen  a  sunset's  crimson  glory, 
Burn  as  if  earth  were  one  great  Altar's  blaze  ; 
Or,  like  the  closing  of  a  piteous  story, 
Light  up  the  misty  world  with  dying  rays. 


252  MY  PICTURE  GALLERY. 

VIII. 

There  I  have  seen  the  clouds,  in  pomp  and  splendor, 
Their  gold  and  purple  banners  all  unfurl ; 
There  I  have  watched  colors,  more  faint  and  tender 
Than  pure  and  delicate  tints  upon  a  pearl. 

IX. 

Skies  strewn  with  roses  fading,  fading  slowly, 
While  one  star  trembling  watched  the  daylight  die  ; 
Or  deep  in  gloom  a  sunset,  hidden  wholly, 
Save  through  gold  rents  torn  in  a  violet  sky. 

X. 

Or  parted  clouds,  as  if  asunder  riven 
By  some  great  angel,  and  beyond  a  space 
Of  far-off  tranquil  light ;  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Will  lead  as  grandly  to  as  calm  a  place. 

XI. 

Or  stern  dark  walls  of  cloudy  mountain  ranges 
Hid  all  the  wonders  that  we  knew  must  be  ; 
While,  far  on  high,  some  little  white  clouds'  changes 
Revealed  the  glory  they  alone  could  see. 

xn. 

Or  in  wild  wrath  the  affrighted  clouds  lay  shattered, 
Like  treasures  of  the  lost  Hesperides, 
All  in  a  wealth  of  ruined  splendor  scattered, 
Save  one  strange  light  on  distant  silver  seas. 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN.  253 

XIII. 

What  land  or  time  can  claim  the  Master  Painter, 
Whose  art  could  teach  him  half  such  gorgeous  dyes  ? 
Or  skill  so  rare,  but  purer  hues  and  fainter 
Melt  every  evening  in  my  western  skies. 

XIV. 

So  there  I  wait,  until  the  shade  has  lengthened, 
And  night's  blue  misty  curtain  floated  down ; 
Then,  with  my  heart  calmed,  and  my  spirit  strength- 
ened, 
I  crawl  once  more  back  to  the  sultry  town. 

xv. 

What  Monarch,  then,  has  nobler  recreations 
Than  mine  ?  Or  where  the  great  and  classic  Land 
Whose  wealth  of  Art  delights  the  gathered  nations 
That  owns  a  Picture  Gallery  half  as  grand  ? 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN. 

I  HAD  a  message  to  send  her, 

To  her  whom  my  soul  loved  best ; 

But  I  had  my  task  to  finish, 

And  she  was  gone  home  to  rest. 

To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven : 
O,  so  far  away  from  here, 

It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  darling, 
For  I  knew  she  could  not  hear ! 


254  SENT  TO  HEAVEN. 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 
So  tender,  and  true,  and  sweet, 

I  longed  for  an  Angel  to  bear  it, 
And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 


I  placed  it,  one  summer  evening, 
On  a  Cloudlet's  fleecy  breast ; 

But  it  faded  in  golden  splendor, 
And  died  in  the  crimson  west. 

I  gave  it  the  Lark,  next  morning, 
And  I  watched  it  soar  and  soar ; 

But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary, 
And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once  more. 

To  the  heart  of  a  Rose  I  told  it ; 

And  the  perfume,  sweet  and  rare, 
Growing  faint  on  the  blue  bright  ether, 

Was  lost  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  laid  it  upon  a  Censer, 

And  I  saw  the  incense  rise ; 

But  its  clouds  of  rolling  silver 
Could  not  reach  the  far  blue  skies. 

I  cried,  in  my  passionate  longing : — 
"Has  the  earth  no  Angel-friend 

Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message 
That  my  heart  desires  to  send?  " 


NEVER  AGAIN.  255 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music, 

So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  clear, 
That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 

And  my  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

And  I  felt,  in  my  soul's  deep  yearning, 

At  last  the  sure  answer  stir  : — 
"  The  music  will  go  up  to  heaven, 

And  carry  my  thought  to  her." 

It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing 

Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 
And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 

On  the  Music's  outspread  wings. 

I  heard  it  float  farther  and  farther, 
In  sound  more  perfect  than  speech ; 

Farther  than  sight  can  follow, 
Farther  than  soul  can  reach. 

And  I  know  that  at  last  my  message 
Has  passed  through  the  golden  gate  ; 

So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless, 
And  I  am  content  to  wait. 


NEVER  AGAIN. 

"  NEVER  again  !  "  vow  hearts  when  reunited, 
"  Never  again  shall  love  be  cast  aside  ; 

Forever  now  the  shadow  has  departed  ; 
Nor  bitter  sorrow,  veiled  in  scornful  pride, 


256  NEVER  AGAIN. 

Shall  feign  indifference,  or  affect  disdain, — 
Never,  O  Love,  again,  never  again !  " 

"  Never  again  !  "  so  sobs  in  broken  accents, 

A  soul  laid  prostrate  at  a  holy  shrine, — 

"  Once  more,  once  more,  forgive,  O  Lord,  and  pardon 

My  wayward  life  shall  bend  to  love  divine  ; 
And  nevermore  shall  sin  its  whiteness  stain, — 
Never,  O  God,  again,  never  again  ! " 

**  Never  again  !  "  so  speaketh  one  forsaken, 
In  the  blank  desolate  passion  of  despair, — 

"  Never  again  shall  the  bright  dream  I  cherished 
Delude  my  heart,  for  bitter  truth  is  there, — 

The  angel,  Hope,  shall  still  thy  cruel  pain 

Never  again,  my  heart,  never  again !  " 

"  Never  again  !  "  so  speaks  the  sudden  silence, 
When  round  the  hearth  gathers  each  well-known 
face, 

But  one  is  missing,  and  no  future  presence, 
However  dear,  can  fill  that  vacant  place  ; 

Forever  shall  the  burning  thought  remain, — - 

"  Never,  beloved,  again  !  never  again  !  " 

"  Never  again ! "  so — but  beyond  our  hearing- 
Ring  out  far  voices  fading  up  the  sky ; 

Never  again  shall  earthly  care  and  sorrow 

Weigh  down  the  wings  that  bear  those  souls  on 
high ; 

"Listen,  O  earth,  and  hear  that  glorious  strain, — 

Never,  never  again,  never  again  !  " 


LISTENING  ANGELS.  357 


LISTENING  ANGELS. 

BLUE  against  the  bluer  heavens 
Stood  the  mountain,  calm  and  still, 

Two  white  Angels,  bending  earthward, 
Leant  upon  the  hill. 

Listening  leant  those  silent  Angels, 
And  I  also  longed  to  hear — 

What  sweet  strain  of  earthly  music 
Thus  could  charm  their  ear. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  many  trumpets 
In  a  warlike  march  draw  nigh  ; 

Solemnly  a  mighty  army 
Passed  in  order  by. 

But  the  clang  had  ceased ;  the  echoes 
Soon  had  faded  from  the  hill ; 

While  the  Angels,  calm  and  earnest, 
Leant  and  listened  still. 

Then  I  heard  a  fainter  clamor, 

Forge  and  wheel  were  clashing  near. 

And  the  Reapers  in  the  meadow 
Singing  loud  and  clear. 

17 


258  LISTENING  ANGELS. 

When  the  sunset  came  in  glory, 
And  the  toil  of  day  was  o'er, 

Still  the  Angels  leant  in  silence, 
Listening  as  before. 

Then,  as  daylight  slowly  vanished, 
And  the  evening  mists  grew  dim, 

Solemnly  from  distant  voices 
Rose  a  vesper  hymn. 

When  the  chant  was  done,  and  lingering 
Died  upon  the  evening  air, 

From  the  hill  the  radiant  Angels 
Still  were  listening  there. 

Silent  came  the  gathering  darkness 
Bringing  with  it  sleep  and  rest ; 

Save  a  little  bird  was  singing 
Near  her  leafy  nest. 

Through  the  sounds  of  war  and  labor 
She  had  warbled  all  day  long, 

While  the  Angels  leant  and  listened 
Only  to  her  song. 

But  the  starry  night  was  coming  ; 

When  she  ceased  her  little  lay, 
From  the  mountain-top  the  Angels 

Slowly  passed  away. 


GOLDEN  DAYS.  259 


GOLDEN  DAYS. 

GOLDEN  days — where  are  they  ? 

Pilgrims  east  and  west 
Cry  ;  if  we  could  find  them 

We  would  pause  and  rest : 
We  would  pause  and  rest  a  little 

From  our  long  and  weary  ways  , — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are  they — 

Golden  days? 

Golden  days — where  are  they? 

Ask  of  childhood's  years, 
Still  untouched  by  sorrow, 

Still  undimmed  by  tears  : 
Ah,  they  seek  a  phantom  Future, 

Crowned  with  brighter,  starry  rays  ; — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are  they — 

Golden  days? 

Golden  days — where  are  they  ? 

Has  Love  learnt  the  spell 
That  will  charm  them  hither, 

Near  our  hearth  to  dwell  ? 
Insecure  are  all  her  treasures, 

Restless  as  her  anxious  gaze : — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are  they — 

Golden  days? 


260  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Golden  days — where  are  they? 

Farther  up  the  hill 
I  can  hear  the  echo 

Faintly  calling  still : 
Faintly  calling,  faintly  dying, 

In  a  far-off  misty  haze  : — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are  they — 

Golden  days  ? 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

LINGERING  fade  the  rays  of  daylight,  and  the  listen- 
ing air  is  chilly ; 
Voice  of  bird  and  forest  murmur,  insect  hum  and 

quivering  spray, 
Stir  not  iu  that  quiet  hour  :  through  the  valley,  calm 

and  stilly, 

All  in  hushed  and  loving  silence  watch  the  slow 
departing  Day. 

Till  the  last  faint  western  cloudlet,  faint  and  rosy, 

eases  blushing, 
And  the  blue  grows  deep  and  deeper  where  one 

trembling  planet  shines, 
And  the  day  has  gone  forever — then,  like  some  great 

ocean  rushing, 

The   sad    night  wind    wails   lamenting,   sobbing 
through  the  moaning  pines. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  261 

Such,  of  all  day's  changing  hours,  is  the  fittest  and 

the  meetest 
For  a  farewell  hour — and  parting  looks  less  bitter 

and  more  blest ; 
Earth  seerns  like  a  shrine  for  sorrow,  Nature's  mother 

voice  is  sweetest, 

And  her  hand  seems  laid  in  chiding  on  the  unquiet 
throbbing  breast. 

Words  are  lower,  for  the  twilight  seems  rebuking 

sad  repining, 
And  wild  murmur  and   rebellion,  as  all  childish 

and  in  vain  ; 
Breaking  through  dark  future  hours  clustering  starry 

hopes  seem  shining, 

Then  the  calm  and    tender   midnight    folds  her 
shadow  round  the  pain. 

So  they  paced  the  shady  lime-walk  in  that  twilight 

dim  and  holy, 
Still  the  last  farewell  deferring,  she  could  hear  or 

he  should  say ; 
Every  word,    weighed    down  by  sorrow,   fell  more 

tenderly  and  slowly — 

This,  which  now  beheld  their  parting,  should  have 
been  their  wedding-day. 

Should  have  been :  her  dreams  of  childhood,  never 

straying,  never  faltering, 

Still  had  needed  Philip's  image  to  make  future 
life  complete  ; 


262  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Philip's  young    hopes  of    ambition,  ever  changing, 

ever  altering, 

Needed  Mildred's  gentle  presence  even  to  make 
successes  sweet. 

This  day  should  have  seen  their  marriage  ;  the  calm 

crowning  and  assurance 
Of  two  hearts,  fulfilling  rather,  and  not  changing, 

either  life  : 
Now  they  must  be  rent  asunder,  and  her  heart  must 

learn  endurance, 

For  he  leaves  their  home,  and  enters  on  a  world  of 
work  and  strife. 

But  her  gentle  spirit  long  had  learnt,  unquestioning, 

submitting, 
To  revere  his  youthful  longings,  and  to  marvel  at 

the  fate 
That  gave  such  a  humble  office,  all  unworthy  and 

unfitting, 

To  the  genius  of  the  village,  who  was  born  for 
something  great. 

When  the  learned  Traveller  came   there  who  had 

gained  renown  at  college, 

Whose  abstruse  research  had  won  him  even  Euro- 
pean fame, 
Questioned  Philip,  praised  his  genius,  marvelled  at 

his  self-taught  knowledge, 

Could  she  murmur  if  he  called  him  up  to  London 
and  to  fame  ? 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  263 

Could  she  waver  when  he  bade  her  take  the  burden 

of  decision, 
Since  his  troth  to  her  was  plighted,  and  his  life 

was  now  her  own  ? 
Could  she  doom  him  to  inaction  ?  could  she,  when  a 

new-born  vision 

Rose  in  glory  for  his  future,  check  it  for  her  sake 
alone  ? 

So  her  little  trembling  fingers,  that  had  toiled  with 

such  fond  pleasure, 
Paused,  and  laid  aside,  and  folded  the  unfinished 

wedding-gown ; 
Faltering  earnestly  assurance,  that  she  too  could,  in 

her  measure, 

Prize  for  him  the  present  honor,  and  the  future's 
sure  renown. 

Now  they  pace  the  shady  lime-walk,  now  the  last 

words  must  be  spoken, 

Words  of  trust,  for  neither  dreaded  more  than  wait- 
ing and  delay ; 
Was  not  love  still  called  eternal, — could  a  plighted 

vow  be  broken  ? — 

See  the  crimson  light  of  sunset  fades  in  purple 
mist  away. 

"  Yes,   my   Mildred,"  Philip  told   her,  "  one   calm 

thought  of  joy  and  blessing, 

Like  a  guardian  spirit  by  me,  through  the  world's 
tumultuous  stir, 


4264  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Still  will  spread  its  wings  above  me,  and  now  urg- 
ing, now  repressing, 

With  ray  Mildred's  voice  will  murmur  thoughts  of 
home,  and  love,  and  her. 

"It  will  charm  my  peaceful  leisure,  sanctify  my  daily 

toiling, 
With  a  right   none  else   possesses,  touching    my 

heart's  inmost  string ; 
And  to  keep  its  pure   wings  spotless  I  shall  fly  the 

world's  touch,  soiling 

Even  in  thought  this  Angel  Guardian  of  my  Mil- 
dred's Wedding  Ring. 

"  Take  it,  dear ;  this  little  circlet  is  the  first  link, 

strong  and  holy, 
Of  a  life-long  chain,  and  holds  me  from  all  other 

love  apart ; 
Till  the  day  when  you  may  wear  it  as  my  wife — my 

own — mine  wholly — 

Let  me  know  it  rests  forever  near  the  beating  of 
your  heart." 

Dawn  of  day  saw  Philip  speeding  on  his  road  to  the 

Great  City, 
Thinking  how  the  stars  gazed  downward  just  with 

Mildred's  patient  eyes ; 
Dreams  of  work,  and  fame,  and  honor  struggling  with 

a  tender  pity, 

Till  the  living  Past  receding  saw  the  conquering 
Future  rise. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Daybreak  still  found  Mildred  watching,  with  the  won- 
der of  first  sorrow; 
How  the  outward  world  unaltered  shone  the  same 

this  very  day ; 
How  unpitying  and  relentless  busy  life  met  this  new 

morrow, 

Earth,  and  sky,  and  man  unheeding  that  her  joy 
had  passed  away. 

Then  the  round  of  weary  duties,   cold  and  formal, 

came  to  meet  her, 
With  the  life  within  departed  that  had  given  them 

each  a  soul ; 
And  her  sick  heart  even  slighted  gentle  words  that 

came  to  greet  her  ; 

For    Grief    spread    its    shadowy   pinions,   like  a 
blight  upon  the  whole. 

Jar  one  chord,  the  harp  is  silent ;  move  one  stone,  the 

arch  is  shattered  ; 
One  small  clarion-cry  of  sorrow  bids  an  armed  host 

wake ; 
One  dark  cloud  can   hide  the   sunlight ;  loose  one 

string,  the  pearls  are  scattered ; 
Think  one   thought,  a  soul  may  perish ;  say  one 
word,  a  heart  may  break ! 

Life  went  on,  the  two  lives  running  side  by  side;  the 

outward  seeming, 

And  the  truer  and  diviner  hidden  in  the  heart  and 
brain ; 


266  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Dreams  grow  holy,  put  in  action ;  work  grows  fair 

through  starry  dreaming ; 

But  where  each  flows  on  unmingling,  both  are  fruit- 
less and  in  vain. 

Such  was  Mildred's  life  ;  her  dreaming  lay  in  some 

far-distant  region, 
All  the  fairer,  all  the  brighter,  that  its  glories  were 

but  guessed ; 
And  the  daily  round  of  duties  seemed  an  unreal,  airy 

legion, — 

Nothing  true  save  Philip's  letters  and  the  ring  upon 
her  breast. 

Letters  telling  how  he  struggled,  for  some  plan  or 

vision  aiming, 
And  at  last  how  he  just  grasped  it  as  a  fresh  one 

spread  its  wings  ; 
How  the  honor  or  the  learning,  once  the  climax,  now 

were  claiming, 

Only  more  and  more,  becoming  merely  steps  to 
higher  things. 

Telling  her  of  foreign  countries  :  little  store  had  she 

of  learning, 
So  her  earnest,  simple  spirit  answered  as  he  touched 

the  string ; 
Day  by  day,  to  these  bright  fancies  all  her  silent 

thoughts  were  turning, 

Seeing  every  radiant  picture  framed  within  her 
golden  Ring. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  267 

O  poor  heart !  love,  if  thou  wiliest ;  but,  thine  own 

soul  still  possessing, 
Live  thy  life  :  not  a  reflection  or  a  shadow  of  his 

own  : 
Lean  as  fondly,  as  completely,  as  thou  wiliest, — but 

confessing 

That  thy  strength  is  God's,  and  therefore  can,  if 
need  be,  stand  alone. 

Little  means  were  there  around  her  to  make  farther, 

wider  ranges, 
Where  her    loving   gentle   spirit   could   try   any 

stronger  flight ; 
And  she  turned  aside,  half  fearing  that  fresh  thoughts 

were  fickle  changes, — 

That  she  must  stay  as  he  left  her  on  that  farewell 
summer  night. 

Love  should  still  be  guide  and  leader,  like  a  herald 

should  have  risen, 
Lighting  up  the  long  dark  vistas,  conquering  all 

opposing  fates  ; 
But  new  claims,  new  thoughts,  new  duties  found  her 

heart  a  silent  prison, 

And  found  Love,  with  folded  pinions,  like  a  jailer 
by  the  gates. 

Yet  why  blame  her  ?  it  had  needed  greater  strength 

than  she  was  given 

To  have  gone  against  the  current  that  so  calmly 
flowed  along ; 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Nothing  fresh  came  near  the  village  save  the  rain  and 

dew  of  heaven, 

And  her  nature  was  too  passive,  and  her  love  per- 
haps too  strong. 

The  great  world  of  thought,  that   rushes  down  the 

years,  and  onward  sweeping 
Bears  upon  its  mighty  billows  in  its  progress  each 

and  all, 
Flowed  so  far  away,  its  murmur  did  not  rouse  them 

from  their  sleeping ; 

Life  and  Time  and  Truth  were  speaking,  but  they 
did  not  hear  their  call. 

Years  flowed  on  ;  and  every  morning  heard  her  prayer 

grow  lower,  deeper, 
As  she  called  all  blessings  on  him,  and  bade  every 

ill  depart, 
And  each  night  when  the  cold  moonlight  shone  upon 

that  quiet  sleeper, 

It  would  show  her  ring   that  glittered   with  each 
throbbing  of  her  heart. 

Years  passed  on.     Fame  came  for  Philip  in  a  full, 

o'erflowing  measure ; 
He  was  spoken  of  and  honored  through  the  breadth 

of  many  lands, 
And  he  wrote  it  all  to  Mildred,  as  if  praise  were  only 

pleasure, 

As  if  fame  were  only  honor,  when  he  laid  them  in 
her  hands. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  269 

Mildred   heard  it  without  wonder,  as  a  sure  result 

expected, 
For  how  could  it  fail,  since  merit  and  renown  go 

side  by  side  ? 
And  the  neighbors,  who  first  fancied  genius  ought  to 

be  suspected, 

Might  at  last  give  up  their  caution,  and  could  own 
him  now  with  pride. 

Years  flowed  on.     These  empty  honors  led  to  others 

they  called  better, 
He  had  saved  some  slender  fortune,  and  might 

claim  his  bride  at  last ; 
Mildred,  grown  so  used  to  waiting,  felt  half  startled 

by  the  letter 

That  now  made  her  future  certain,  and  would  con- 
secrate her  past. 

And  he  came:    grown  sterner,  older — changed   in- 
deed :  a  grave  reliance 
He  replaced  his  eager  manner,  and  the  quick  short 

speech  of  old : 
He  had  gone  forth  with  a  spirit  half  of  hope  and  half 

defiance ; 

He  returned  with  proud  assurance  half  disdainful 
and  half  cold. 

Yet  his  old  self  seemed  returning  while  he  stood  some- 
times, and  listened 

To  her  calm,  soft  voice,  relating  all  the  thoughts 
of  these  long  years  ; 


270  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED, 

And  if  Mildred's  heart  was  heavy,  and  at  times  her 

blue  eyes  glistened, 

Still  in  thought  she  would  not  whisper  aught  of 
sorrow  or  of  fears. 

Autumn  with  its  golden  cornfields,  autumn  with  its 

storms  and  showers, 
Had  been  there  to  greet  his  coming  with  its  forests 

gold  and  brown ; 
And  the  last  leaves  still  were  falling,  fading  still  the 

year's  last  flowers, 

When  he  left  the  quiet  village,  and  took  back  his 
bride  to  town. 

Home, — the  home  that  she  had  pictured  many  a  time 

in  twilight,  dwelling 
On  that  tender,  gentle  fancy,  folded  round  with 

loving  care  ; 
Here  was  home, — the  end,  the  haven  ;  and  what  spirit 

voice  seemed  telling, 

That  she  only  held  the  casket,  with  the  gem  no 
longer  there  ? 

Sad  it  maybe  to  be  longing,  with  a  patience  faint  and 

weary, 
For  a  hope  deferred, — and  sadder  still  to  see  it  fade 

and  fall ; 
Yet  to  grasp  the  thing  we  long  for,  and,  with  sorrow 

sick  and  dreary, 

Then  to  find  how  it  can  fail  us,  is  the  saddest  pain 
of  all. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  271 

What  was  wanting  ?     He  was  gentle,  kind,  and  gener- 
ous still,  deferring 
To  her  wishes  always  ;  nothing  seemed  to  mar  their 

tranquil  life : 
There  are  skies  so  calm  and  leaden  that  we  long  for 

storm-winds  stirring, 

There  is  peace  so  cold  and   bitter,  that  we  almost 
welcome  strife. 

Darker  grew  the  clouds  above  her,  and  the  slow  con- 
viction clearer, 
That  gave  her  home  and  pity,  but  that  heart  and 

soul  and  mind 
Were  beyond  her  now ;  he  loved  her,  and  in  youth 

he  had  been  near  her, 

But  he  now  had  gone  far  onward,  and  had  left  her 
there  behind. 

Yes,  beyond  her :  j^es,  quick-hearted,  her  Love  helped 

her  in  revealing 
It  was  worthless,  while  so  mighty  ;  was  too  weak, 

although  so  strong ; 
There  were  courts  she  could  not  enter,  depths  she 

could  not  sound  ;  yet  feeling 
It  was  vain  to  strive  or  struggle,  vainer  still  to 
mourn  or  long. 

He  would  give  her  words  of  kindness,  he  would  talk 

of  home,  but  seeming 

With  an  absent    look,  forgetting   if  he    held  or 
dropped  her  hand ; 


272  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

And  then   turn  with  eager  pleasure   to  his  writing, 

reading,  dreaming, 

Or  to  speak  of  things  with  others  that  she  could  not 
understand. 


He  had  paid,  and  paid  most  nobly,  all  he  owed ;  no 

need  of  blaming ; 
It  had  cost  him  something,  maybe,  that  no  future 

could  restore  : 
In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  knew  it ;  Love  and  Sorrow, 

not  complaining, 

Only  suffered  all  the  deeper,  only  loved  him  all  the 
more. 

Sometimes  then  a  stronger  anguish,  and  more  cruel, 

weighed  upon  her, 
That,  through  all  those  years  of  waiting,  he  had 

slowly  learnt  the  truth ; 
He  had  known  himself  mistaken,  but  that,  bound  to 

her  in  honor, 

He  renounced  his  life,  to  pay  her  for  the  patience 
of  her  youth. 

But  a  star  was  slowly  rising  from  that  mist  of  grief, 

and  brighter 

Grew  her  eyes,  for  each  slow  hour  surer  comfort 
seemed  to  bring ; 
And  she  watched  with  strange  sad  smiling  how  her 

trembling  hands  grew  slighter, 
And  how  thin  her  slender  finger,  and  how  large  her 
wedding-ring. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  273 

And  the  tears  dropped  slowly  on  it,  as  she  kissed  that 

golden  token 

With  a  deeper  love,  it  may  be,  than  was  in  the  far- 
off  past ; 
And  remembering  Philip's  fancy,  that  so  long  ago  was 

spoken, 

Thought  her  Ring's  bright    angel  guardian  had 
stayed  near  her  to  the  last. 

Grieving  sorely,  grieving  truly,  with  a  tender  care 

and  sorrow, 

Philip  watched  the  slow,  sure  fading  of  his  gentle, 
patient  wife  ; 

Could  he  guess  with  what  a  yearning  she  was  long- 
ing for  the  morrow, 

Could  he  guess  the  bitter  knowledge  that  had  wearied 
her  of  life? 

Now  with  violets  strewn  upon  her,  Mildred  lies  in 

peaceful  sleeping ; 

All  unbound  her  long,  bright  tresses,  and  her  throb- 
bing heart  at  rest, 
And  the  cold,  blue  rays  of  moonlight,  through  the 

open  casement  creeping, 

Show  the   ring  upon  her  finger,  and  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  breast. 

Peace  at  last.     Of  peace  eternal  is  her  calm,  sweet 

smile  a  token, 

Has  some  angel  lingering  near  her  let  a  radiant 
promise  fall  ? 
18 


274  BORROWED  THOUGHTS. 

Has  he  told  her  Heaven  unites  again  the  links  that 

Earth  has  hroken  ? 

For  on  Earth  so  much  is  needed,  but  in  Heaven 
Love  is  all ! 


BORROWED  THOUGHTS. 

I.   FROM   "LAVATER." 

TRUST  him  little  who  doth  raise 
To  one  height  both  great  and  small, 

And  sets  the  sacred  crown  of  praise, 
Smiling,  on  the  head  of  all. 

Trust  him  less  who  looks  around 
To  censure  all  with  scornful  eyes, 

And  in  everything  has  found  . 
Something  that  he  dare  despise. 

But  for  one  who  stands  apart, 
Stirred  by  naught  that  can  befall, 

With  a  cold,  indifferent  heart, — 
Trust  him  least  and  last  of  all. 


H.   FROM   "  PHANTASTES." 

I  HAVE  a  bitter  Thought,  a  Snake 

That  used  to  sting  my  life  to  pain ; 
I  strove  to  cast  it  far  away, 
But  every  night  and  every  day 
It  crawled  back  to  my  heart  again ; 


BORROWED  THOUGHTS.  275 

It  was  in  vain  to  live  or  strive, 

To  think  or  sleep,  to  work  or  pray ; 
At  last  I  bade  this  tiling  accursed 
Gnaw  at  my  heart,  and  do  its  worst, 
And  so  I  let  it  have  its  way. 

Thus  said  I,  "  I  shall  never  fall 
Into  a  false  and  dreaming  peace, 

And  then  awake,  with  sudden  start, 

To  feel  it  biting  at  my  heart, 

For  now  the  pain  can  never  cease." 

But  I  gained  more ;  for  I  have  found 
That  such  a  snake's  envenomed  charm 

Must  always,  always  find  a  part, 
Deep  in  the  centre  of  my  heart, 
Which  it  can  never  wound  or  harm. 

It  is  coiled  round  my  heart  to-day, 
It  sleeps  at  times,  this  cruel  snake, 

And  while  it  sleeps  it  never  stings : — 

Hush  !  let  us  talk  of  other  things, 
Lest  it  should  hear  me  and  awake. 


III.  FROM   "LOST  ALICE." 

YES,  dear,  our  Love  is  slain  ; 
In  the  cold  grave  forevermore  it  lies, 

Never  to  awake  again, 
Or  light  our  sorrow  with  its  starry  eyes  : 

And  so — regret  is  vain. 


270  BORROWED  THOUGHTS. 

One  hour  of  pain  and  dread, 
We  killed  our  Love,  we  took  its  life  away 

With  the  false  words  we  said ; 
And  so  we  watch  it,  since  that  cruel  day, 

Silent,  and  cold,  and  dead. 

We  should  have  seen  it  shine 
Long  years  beside  us.     Time  and  Death  might  try 

To  touch  that  life  divine, 
Whose  strength  could  every  other  stroke  defy 

Save  only  thine  and  mine. 

No  longing  can  restore 
Our  dead  again.  Vain  are  the  tears  we  weep, 

And  vainly  we  deplore 
Our  buried  Love :  its  grave  lies  dark  and  deep 

Between  us  evermore. 


IV.  FROM  *  *  * 

WITHIN  the  kingdom  of  my  soul 
I  bid  you  enter,  Love,  to-day ; 
Submit  my  life  to  your  control, 
And  give  my  Heart  up  to  your  sway. 

My  Past,  whose  light  and  life  is  flown, 
Shall  live  through  memory  for  you  still ; 
Take  all  my  Present  for  your  own, 
And  mould  my  Future  to  your  will. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE 

One  only  thought  remains  apart, 
And  will  forever  so  remain  , 
There  is  one  Chamber  in  my  heart 
Where  even  you  might  knock  in  vain. 

A  haunted  Chamber  • — long  ago 
I  closed  it,  and  L  cast  the  key 
Where  deep  and  bitter  waters  flow, 
Into  a  vast  and  silent  sea. 

Dear,  it  is  haunted.     All  the  rest 
Is  yours  ;  but  I  have  shut  that  door 
Forever  now.     'Tis  even  best 
That  I  should  enter  it  no  more. 

No  more.     It  is  not  well  to  stay 
With  ghosts  ,  their  very  look  would  scare 
Your  joyous,  loving  smile  away  ; — 
So  never  try  to  enter  there. 

Check,  if  you  love  me,  all  regret 
That  this  one  thought  remains  apart : — 
Now  let  us  smile,  dear,  and  forget 
The  haunted  Chamber  in  my  Heart. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 

THOU  hast  done  well  to  kneel  and  say, 
"  Since  He  who  gave  can  take  away, 
And  bid  me  suffer,  I  obey." 


278  LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 

And  also  well  to  tell  thy  heart, 
That  good  lies  in  the  bitterest  part, 
And  thou  wilt  profit  by  her  smart. 

But  bitter  hours  come  to  all : 

When  even  truths  like  these  will  pall, 

Sick  hearts  for  humbler  comfort  call. 

Then  I  would  have  thee  strive  to  see, 
That  good  and  evil  come  to  thee, 
As  one  of  a  great  family. 

And  as  material  life  is  planned. 

That  even  the  loneliest  one  must  stand 

Dependent  on  his  brother's  hand  ; 

So  links  more  subtle  and  more  fine 
Bind  every  other  soul  to  thine 
In  one  great  brotherhood  divine. 

Nor  with  thy  share  of  work  be  vexed ; 
Though  incomplete,  and  even  prelext, 
It  fits  exactly  to  the  next. 

What  seems  so  dark  to  thy  dim  sight 
May  be  a  shadow,  seen  aright, 
Making  some  brightness  doubly  bright. 

The  flash  that  struck  thy  tree — no  more 
To  shelter  thee — lets  Heaven's  blue  floor 
Shine  where  it  never  shone  before 

Thy  life  that  has  been  dropped  aside 
Into  Time's  stream,  may  stir  the  tide 
In  rippled  circles  spreading  wide. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE.  279 

The  cry  wrung  from  thy  spirit's  pain 
May  echo  on  some  far-off  plain, 
And  guide  a  wanderer  home  again. 

Fail  —yet  rejoice  ;  because  no  less 
The  failure  that  makes  thy  distress 
May  teach  another  full  success. 

It  may  be  that  in  some  great  need 
Thy  life's  poor  fragments  are  decreed 
To  help  build  up  a  lofty  deed. 

Thy  heart  should  throb  in  vast  content, 
Thus  knowing  that  it  was  but  meant 
As  chord  in  one  great  instrument ; 

That  even  the  discord  in  thy  soul 
May  make  complete!1  music  roll 
From  out  the  great  harmonious  whole. 

It  may  be,  that  when  all  is  light, 
Deep  set  within  that  deep  delight 
Will  be  to  know  why  all  was  right ; 

To  hear  life's  perfect  music  rise, 
And,  while  it  floods  the  happy  skies 
Thy  feeble  voice  to  recognize. 

Then  strive  more  gladly  to  fulfil 
Thy  little  part.     This  darkness  still 
Is  light  to  every  loving  will. 

And  trust,  as  if  already  plain, 
How  just  thy  share  of  loss  and  pain 
Is  for  another  full  gain. 


280  A  CHANGELING. 

I  dare  not  limit  time  or  place, 
Touched  by  thy  life :  nor  dare  I  trace 
Its  far  vibrations  into  space. 

One  only  knows.     Yet  if  the  fret 
Of  thy  weak  heart,  in  weak  regret 
Needs  a  more  tender  comfort  yet : 

Then  thou  mayst  take  thy  loneliest  fears, 
The  bitterest  drops  of  all  thy  tears, 
The  dreariest  hours  of  all  thy  years  ; 

And  through  thy  anguish  there  outspread 
May  ask  that  God's  great  love  would  shed 
Blessings  on  one  belove'd  head. 

And  thus  thy  soul  shall  learn  to  draw 
Sweetness  from  out  that  loving  law 
That  sees  no  failure  and  no  flaw, 

Where  all  is  good.     And  life  is  good, 
Were  the  one  lesson  understood 
Of  its  most  sacred  brotherhood. 


A  CHANGELING. 

A  LITTLE  changeling  spirit 
Crept  to  my  arms  one  day  : 

I  had  no  heart  or  courage 
To  drive  the  child  away. 


A  CHANGELING.  £81 

So  all  day  long  I  soothed  her, 
And  hushed  her  on  my  breast ; 

And  all  night  long  her  wailing 
Would  never  let  me  rest. 

I  dug  a  grave  to  hold  her, 

A  grave  both  dark  and  deep ; 
I  covered  her  with  violets, 

And  laid  her  there  to  sleep. 

I  used  to  go  and  watch  there, 
Both  night  and  morning  too  : — 

It  was  my  tears,  I  fancy, 
That  kept  the  violets  blue, 

I  took  her  up  :  and  once  more 

I  felt  the  clinging  hold, 
And  heard  the  ceaseless  wailing 

That  wearied  me  of  old. 

I  wandered,  and  I  wandered, 
"With  my  burden  on  my  breast, 

Till  I  saw  a  church-door  open, 
And  entered  in  to  rest. 

In  the  dim,  dying  daylight, 

Set  in  a  flowery  shrine, 
I  saw  the  Virgin  Mother 

Holding  her  Child  divine. 

I  knelt  down  there  in  silence, 

And  on  the  altar-stone 
I  laid  my  wailing  burden, 
And  came  away — alone. 

\ 


282  DISCOURAGED. 

And  now  that  little  spirit, 
That  sobbed  so  all  day  long, 

Is  grown  a  shining  Angel, 

With  wings  both  wide  and  strong. 

She  watches  me  from  Heaven 
With  loving,  tender  care, 

And  one  day  she  has  promised 
That  I  shall  find  her  there. 


DISCOURAGED. 

WHERE  the  little  babbling  streamlet 

First  brings  forth  to  light, 
Trickling  through  soft  velvet  mosses, 

Almost  hid  from  sight ; 

Vowed  I  with  delight, — 
"  River,  I  will  follow  thee, 
Through  thy  wanderings  to  the  Sea  !  " 

Gleaming  'mid  the  purple  heather, 

Downward  then  it  sped, 
Glancing  through  the  mountain  gorges, 

Like  a  silver  thread, 

As  it  quicker  fled, 
Louder  music  in  its  flow, 
Dashing  to  the  vale  below. 


DISCOURAGED.  283 

Then  its  voice  grew  lower,  gentler, 

And  its  pace  less  fleet, 
Just  as  though  it  loved  to  linger 

Round  the  rushes'  feet, 

As  they  stooped  to  meet 
Their  clear  images  below, 
Broken  by  the  ripples'  flow. 

Purple  Willow-herd  bent  over 

To  her  shadow  fair ; 
Meadow-sweet,  in  feathery  clusters, 

Perfumed  all  the  air ; 

Silver-weed  was  there, 
And  in  one  calm,  grassy  spot, 
Starry,  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Tangled  weeds,  below  the  waters, 

Still  seemed  drawn  away ; 
Yet  the  current,  floating  onward 

Was  less  strong  than  they ; — 

Sunbeams  watched  their  play, 
With  a  flickering  light  and  shade, 
Through  the  screen  the  Alders  made. 

Broader  grew  the  flowing  River  ; 

To  its  grassy  brink. 
Slowly,  in  the  slanting  sun-rays, 

Cattle  trooped  to  drink  ; 

The  blue  sky,  I  think, 
Was  no  bluer  than  that  stream, 
Slipping  onward,  like  a  dream. 


284  DISCOURAGED. 

Quicker,  deeper  then  it  hurried, 

Rushing  fierce  and  free  ; 
But  1  said,  "  It  should  grow  calmer 

Ere  it  meets  the  Sea, 

The  wide  purple  Sea, 
Which  I  weary  for  in  vain, 
Wasting  all  my  toil  and  pain." 

But  it  rushed  still  quicker,  fiercer, 

In  its  rocky  bed, 
Hard  and  stony  was  the  pathway 

To  my  tired  tread  ; 

"  I  despair,"  I  said, 
"  Of  that  wide  and  glorious  Sea 
That  was  promised  unto  me." 

So  I  turned  aside,  and  wandered 
Through  green  meadows  near, 

Far  away,  among  the  daisies, 
Far  away,  for  fear, 
Lest  I  still  should  hear 

The  loud  murmur  of  its  song, 

As  the  River  flowed  along. 

Now  I  hear  it  not : — I  loiter 

Gayly  as  before  ; 
Yet  I  sometimes  think, — and  thinking 

Makes  my  heart  so  sore, — 

Just  a  few  steps  more, 
And  there  might  have  shone  for  me, 
Blue  and  infinite,  the  Sea. 


IF  THOU  COULDST  KNOW.  285 


IF  THOU  COULDST  KNOW. 

I  THINK  if  thou  couldst  know, 

O  soul  that  will  complain, 
What  lies  concealed  below 

Our  burden  and  our  pain  ; 

How  just  our  anguish  brings 

Nearer  those  longed-for  things 

We  seek  for  now  in  vain, — 
I  think  thou  wouldst  rejoice,  and  not  complain. 

I  think  if  thou  couldst  see, 

With  thy  dim  mortal  sight, 
How  meanings,  dark  to  thee, 

Are  shadows  hiding  light ; 
Truth's  efforts  crossed  and  vexed, 
Life's  purpose  all  perplexed, — 
If  thou  couldst  see  them  right, 

I  think  that  they  would  seem  all  clear  and  wise,  and 
bright. 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  know, 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  see ; 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  slow 

In  poor  humanity. 

If  thou  couldst  trust,  poor  soul, 

In  Him  wlio  rules  the  whole, 

Thou  wouldst  find  peace  and  rest : 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  well,  but  Trust  is  best. 


280          THE  WARRIOR  TO  HIS  DEAD  BRIDE. 


THE  WARRIOR  TO  HIS  DEAD  BRIDE. 

IF  in  the  fight  my  arm  was  strong, 
And  forced  my  foes  to  yield, — 

If  conquering  and  unhurt  I  came 
Back  from  the  battle-field, — 

It  is  because  thy  prayers  have  been 
My  safeguard  and  my  shield. 

My  comrades  smile  to  see  my  arm 

Spare  or  protect  a  foe, 
They  think  thy  gentle  pleading  voice 

Was  silenced  long  ago  ; 
But  pity  and  compassion,  love, 

Were  taught  me  first  by  woe. 

Thy  heart,  my  own,  still  beats  in  Heaven 

With  the  same  love  divine 
That  made  thee  stoop  to  such  a  soul, 

So  hard,  so  stern  as  mine, — 
My  eyes  have  learnt  to  weep,  beloved, 

Since  last  they  looked  on  thine. 

I  hear  thee  murmur  words  of  peace 
Through  the  dim  midnight  air, 

And  a  calm  falls  from  the  angel  stars 
And  soothes  my  great  despair, — 

The  heavens  themselves  look  brighter,  love, 
Since  thy  sweet  soul  is  there. 


A  LETTER. 

And  if  my  heart  is  once  more  calm, 
My  step  is  once  more  free, 

It  is  because  each  hour  I  feel 
Thou  prayest  still  for  me  ; 

Because  no  fate  or  change  can  come 
Between  my  soul  and  thee. 

It  is  because  my  heart  is  stilled, 

Not  broken  by  despair, 
Because  I  see  the  grave  is  bright, 

And  death  itself  is  fair  : — 
I  dread  no  more  the  wrath  of  Heaven, 

I  have  an  angel  there  ! 


A  LETTER. 

DEAR,  I  tried  to  write  you  such  a  letter 
As  would  tell  you  all  my  heart  to-day. 

Written  Love  is  poor ;  one  word  were  better ; 
Easier,  too,  a  thousand  times,  to  say. 

I  can  tell  you  all :  fear,  doubts  unheeding, 
While  I  can  be  near  you,  hold  your  hand, 

Looking  right  into  your  eyes,  and  reading 
Reassurance  that  you  understand. 

Yet  I  wrote  it  through,  then  lingered,  thinking 
Of  its  reaching  you, — what  hour,  what  day; 

Till  I  felt  my  heart  and  courage  sinking 
With  a  strange,  new,  wondering  dismay. 


288  A  LETTER. 

"  Will  my  letter  fall,"  I  wondered  sadly, 
a  On  her  mood  like  some  discordant  tone, 

Or  be  welcomed  tenderly  and  gladly? 
Will  she  be  with  others,  or  alone  ? 

"  It  may  find  her  too  absorbed  to  read  it, 
Save  with  hurried  glance  and  careless  air ; 

Sad  and  weary,  she  may  scarcely  heed  it ; 
Gay  and  happy,  she  may  hardly  care. 

"Shall  I — dare  I — risk  the  chances?"  slowly 
Something — was  it  shyness,  love,  or  pride  ? — 

Chilled  my  heart,  and  checked  my  courage  wholly ; 
So  I  laid  it  wistfully  aside. 

Then  I  leant  against  the  casement,  turning 
Tearful  eyes  towards  the  far-off  west, 

Where  the  golden  evening  light  was  burning, 
Till  my  heart  throbbed  back  again  to  rest. 

And  I  thought :  "  Love's  soul  is  not  in  fetters, 
Neither  space  nor  time  keeps  souls  apart ; 

Since  I  cannot — dare  not — send  my  letters, 
Through  the  silence  I  will  send  my  heart. 

"If,  perhaps  now,  while  my  tears  are  falling, 

She  is  dreaming  quietly  alone, 
She  will  hear  my  Love's  far  echo  calling, 

Feel  my  spirit  drawing  near  her  own. 

"  She  will  hear,  while  twilight  shades  enfold  her, 
All  the  gathered  Love  she  knows  so  well, — 

Deepest  Love  my  words  have  ever  told  her, 
Deeper  still — all  I  could  never  tell. 


A  COMFORTER. 

"  Wondering  at  the  strange,  mysterious  power 
That  has  touched  her  heart,  then  she  will  say : 

'  Some  one  whom  I  love,  this  very  hour, 
Thinks  of  me,  and  loves  me,  far  away.' 

"  If,  as  well  may  be,  to-night  has  found  her 
Full  of  other  thoughts,  with  others  by, 

Through  the  words  and  claims  that  gather  round  her 
She  will  hear  just  one  half-smothered  sigh ; 

"  Or  will  marvel  why,  without  her  seeking, 
Suddenly  the  thought  of  me  recurs ; 

Or,  while  listening  to  another  speaking, 
Fancy  that  my  hand  is  holding  hers." 

So  I  dreamed,  and  watched  the  stars'  far  splendor 
Glimmering  on  the  azure  darkness,  start, — 

While  the  star  of  trust  rose  bright  and  tender, 
Through  the  twilight  shadows  of  my  heart. 


A  COMFORTER. 

i. 

"  WILL  she  come  to  me,  little  Eifie, 
Will  she  come  in  my  arms  to  rest, 

And  nestle  her  head  on  my  shoulder, 
While  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  west  ? 

'9 


290  A  COMFORTER. 

II. 

"  I  and  Effie  will  sit  together, 
All  alone,  in  this  great  arm-chair: — 

Is  it  silly  to  mind  it,  darling, 
When  Life  is  so  hard  to  bear  ? 

in. 

"  No  one  comforts  me  like  my  Effie, 
Just  I  think  that  she  does  not  try, — 

Only  looks  with  a  wistful  wonder 
Why  grown  people  should  ever  cry  ; 

IV. 

"  While  her  little  soft  arms  close  tighter 
Round  my  neck  in  their  clinging  hold ; 

Well,  I  must  not  cry  on  your  hair,  dear, 
For  my  tears  might  tarnish  the  gold. 

v. 

"  I  am  tired  of  trying  to  read,  dear ; 

It  is  worse  to  talk  and  seem  gay : 
There  are  some  kinds  of  sorrow,  Effie, 

It  is  useless  to  thrust  away. 

VI. 

"  Ah,  advice  may  be  wise,  my  darling, 
But  one  always  knows  it  before  ; 

And  the  reasoning  down  one's  sorrow 
Seems  to  make  one  suffer  the  more. 


A  COMFORTER.  291 

VII. 

"  But  my  Effie  won't  reason,  will  she? 

Or  endeavor  to  understand ; 
Only  holds  up  her  mouth  to  kiss  me, 

As  she  strokes  my  face  with  her  hand. 

VIII. 

"  If  you  break  your  plaything  yourself,  dear, 
Don't  you  cry  for  it  all  the  same  ? 

I  don't  think  it  is  such  a  comfort, 
One  has  only  one's  self  to  blame. 

IX. 

"  People  say  things  cannot  be  helped,  dear, 

But  then  that  is  the  reason  why ; 
For  if  things  could  be  helped  or  altered, 

One  would  never  sit  dowri  to  cry : 

x. 

"  They  say,  too,  that  tears  are  quite  useless 

To  undo,  amend,  or  restore, — 
When  I  think  how  useless,  my  Effie, 

Then  my  tears  only  fall  the  more. 

XI. 

"  All  to-day  I  struggled  against  it ; 

But  that  does  not  make  sorrow  cease: 
And  now,  dear,  it  is  such  a  comfort 

To  be  able  to  cry  in  peace, 


292  A  COMFORTER. 

XII. 

"•  Though  wise  people  would  call  that  folly, 
And  remonstrate  with  grave  surprise ; 

We  won't  mind  what  they  say,  my  Effie ; — 
We  never  professed  to  be  wise. 

XIII. 

"  But  my  comforter  knows  a  lesson 
Wiser,  truer  than  all  the  rest : — 

That  to  help  and  to  heal  a  sorrow, 
Love  and  silence  are  always  best. 

XIV. 

"  Well,  who  is  ray  comforter, — tell  me  ? 

Effie  smiles,  but  she  will  not  speak : 
Or  look  up  through  the  long  curled  lashes 

That  are  shading  her  rosy  cheek. 

XV. 

"  Is  she  thinking  of  talking  fishes, 
The  bluebird,  or  magical  tree  ? 

Perhaps  I  am  thinking,  my  darling, 
Of  something  that  never  can  be. 

XVI. 

"  You  long — don't  you,  dear? — for  the  Genii, 
Who  were  slaves  of  lamps  and  of  rings  ; 

And,  I — I  am  sometimes  afraid,  dear, 
I  want  as  impossible  things. 


UNSEEN.  293 

XVII. 


"  But  hark !  there  is  Nurse  calling  Effie ! 

It  is  bedtime,  so  run  away ; 
And  I  must  go  back,  or  the  others 

Will  be  wondering  why  I  stay. 


XVIII. 


"  So  good  night  to  my  darling  Effie  ; 

Keep  happy,  sweetheart,  and  grow  wise : — 
There's  one  kiss  for  her  golden  tresses, 

And  two  for  her  sleepy  eyes." 


UNSEEN. 

THERE  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and  Earth  than  we 

Can  dream  of,  or  than  nature  understands  ; 

We  learn  not  through  our  poor  philosophy 

What  hidden  chords  are  touched  by  unseen  hands. 

The  present  hour  repeats  upon  its  strings 
Echoes  of  some  vague  dream  we  have  forgot ; 
Dim  voices  whisper  half-remembered  things, 
And  when  we  pause  to  listen — answer  not. 

Forebodings  come  :  we  know  not  how,  or  whence, 
Shadowing  a  nameless  fear  upon  the  soul, 
And  stir  within  our  hearts  a  subtler  sense 
Than  light  may  read,  or  wisdom  may  control. 


294  A  REMEMBRANCE  OF  AUTUMN. 

And  who  can  tell  what  secret  links  of  thought 
Bind  heart  to  heart  ?     Unspoken  things  are  heard, 
As  if  within  our  deepest  selves  was  brought 
The  soul,  perhaps,  of  some  unuttered  word, 

But,  though  a  veil  of  shadow  hangs  between 
That  hidden  life  and  what  we  see  and  hear, 
Let  us  revere  the  power  of  the  Unseen, 
And  know  a  world  of  mystery  is  near. 


A  REMEMBRANCE  OF  AUTUMN. 

NOTHING  stirs  the  sunny  silence, — 
Save  the  drowsy  humming  of  the  bees 

Round  the  rich  ripe  peaches  on  the  wall, 
And  the  south-wind  sighing  in  the  trees, 

And  the  dead  leaves  rustling  as  they  fall : 
While  the  swallows,  one  by  one,  are  gathering 

All  impatient  to  be  on  the  wing, 
And  to  wander  from  us,  seeking 
Their  beloved  Spring ! 

Cloudless  rise  the  azure  heavens ! 

Only  vaporous  wreaths  of  snowy  white 
Nestle  in  the  gray  hill's  rugged  side  ; 
And  the  golden  woods  are  bathed  in  light, 
Dying,  if  they  must,  with  kingly  pride  : 
While  the  swallows,  in  the  blue  air  wheeling, 

Circle  now  an  eager,  fluttering  band, 
Ready  to  depart  and  leave  us 
For  a  brighter  land  ! 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  295 

But  a  voice  is  sounding  sadly, 
Telling  of  a  glory  that  has  been  ; 

Of  a  day  that  faded  all  too  fast : — 
See  afar  through  the  blue  air  serene, 

Where  the  swallows  wing  their  way  at  last, 
And  our  hearts  perchance  as  sadly  wandering, 

Vainly  seeking  for  a  long-lost  day, 
While  we  watch  the  far-off  swallows, 
Flee  with  them  away  ! 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

I. 

YES,  it  looked  dark  and  dreary, 

That  long  and  narrow  street : 
Only  the  sound  of  the  rain, 

And  the  tramp  of  passing  feet, 
The  duller  glow  of  the  fire, 

And  gathering  mists  of  night, 
To  mark  how  slow  and  weary 

The  long  day's  cheerless  flight ! 

n. 
Watching  the  sullen  fire, 

Hearing  the  dismal  rain, 
Drop  after  drop,  run  down 

On  the  darkening  window  pane : 
Chill  was  the  heart  of  Alice, 

Chill  as  that  winter  day, — 
For  the  star  of  her  life  had  risen 

Only  to  fade  away. 


296  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

in. 

The  voice  that  had  been  so  strong 

To  bid  the  snare  depart, 
The  true  and  earnest  will, 

The  calm  and  steadfast  heart, 
Were  now  weighed  down  by  sorrow, 

Were  quivering  now  with  pain  ; 
The  clear  path  now  seemed  clouded, 

And  all  her  grief  in  vain. 

IV. 

Duty,  Right,  Truth,  who  promised 

To  help  and  save  their  own, 
Seemed  spreading  wide  their  pinions 

To  leave  her  there  alone. 
So,  turning  from  the  Present 

To  well-known  days  of  yore, 
She  called  on  them  to  strengthen 

And  guard  her  soul  once  more. 

v. 

She  thought  how  in  her  girlhood 

Her  life  was  given  away, 
The  solemn  promise  spoken 

She  kept  so  well  to-day ; 
How  to  her  brother  Herbert 

She  had  been  help  and  guide, 
And  how  his  artist  nature 

On  her  calm  strength  relied. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  297 

* 

VI. 

How  through  life's  fret  and  turmoil 

The  passion  and  fire  of  art 
In  him  was  soothed  and  quickened 

By  her  true  sister  heart ; 
How  future  hopes  had  always 

Been  for  his  sake  alone ; 
And  now — what  strange  new  feeling 

Possessed  her  as  its  own  ? 


VII. 

Her  home — each  flower  that  breathed  there 

The  wind's  sigh,  soft  and  low, 
Each  trembling  spray  of  ivy, 

The  river's  murmuring  flow, 
The  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Sunset,  or  twilight  dim, — 
Dear  as  they  were,  were  dearer 

By  leaving  them  for  him. 

vin. 

And  each  year  as  it  found  her 

In  the  dull,  feverish  town, 
Saw  self  still  more  forgotten, 

And  selfish  care  kept  down 
By  the  calm  joy  of  evening 

That  brought  him  to  her  side, 
To  warn  him  with  wise  counsel, 

Or  praise  with  tender  pride. 


298  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

IX. 

Her  heart,  her  life,  her  future, 

Her  genius,  only  meant 
Another  thing  to  give  him, 

And  be  therewith  content. 
To-day,  what  words  had  stirred  her, 

Her  soul  could  not  forget? 
What  dream  had  filled  her  spirit 

With  strange  and  wild  regret  ? 

x. 

To  leave  him  for  another, — 

Could  it  indeed  be  so  ? 
Could  it  have  cost  such  anguish 

To  bid  this  vision  go? 
Was  this  her  faith  ?     Was  Herbert 

The  second  in  her  heart  ? 
Did  it  need  all  this  struggle 

To  bid  a  dream  depart  ?  - 

XI. 

And  yet,  within  her  spirit 

A  far-off  land  was  seen, 
A  home,  which  might  have  held  her, 

A  love,  which  might  have  been. 
And  Life — not  the  mere  being 

Of  daily  ebb  and  flow, 
But  Life  itself — had  claimed  her, 

And  she  had  let  it  go ! 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  299 

XII. 

Within  her  heart  there  echoed 

Again  the  well-known  tone 
That  promised  this  bright  future, 

And  asked  her  for  her  own : 
Then  words  of  sorrow,  broken 

By  half-reproachful  pain : 
And  then  a  farewell,  spoken 

In  words  of  cold  disdain. 


XIII. 

Where  now  was  the  stern  purpose 

That  nerved  her  soul  so  long? 
Whence  came  the  words  she  uttered, 

So  hard,  so  cold,  so  strong  ? 
What  right  had  she  to  banish 

A  hope  that  God  had  given  ? 
Why  must  she  choose  earth's  portion, 

And  turn  aside  from  Heaven  ? 


XIV. 

To-day  !     Was  it  this  morning  ? 

If  this  long,  tearful  strife 
Was  but  the  work  of  hours, 

What  would  be  years  of  life  ? 
Why  did  a  cruel  Heaven 

For  such  great  suffering  call? 
And  why — O  still  pore  cruel ! — 

Must  her  own  words  do  all  ? 


300  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

XV. 

Did  she  repent?     O  sorrow! 

Why  do  we  linger  still 
To  take  thy  loving  message, 

And  do  thy  gentle  will  ? 
See,  her  tears  fall  more  slowly, 

The  passionate  murmurs  cease, 
And  back  upon  her  spirit 

Flow  strength,  and  love,  and  peace. 

XVI. 

The  fire  burns  more  brightly, 

The  rain  has  passed  away, 
Herbert  will  see  no  shadow 

Upon  his  home  to-day. 
Only  that  Alice  greets  him 

With  doubly  tender  care, 
Kissing  a  fonder  blessing 

Down  on  his  golden  hair. 


II. 

I. 

THE  Studio  is  deserted, 

Palette  and  brush  laid  by, 
The  sketch  rests  on  the  easel, 

The  paint  is  scarcely  dry  ; 
And  Silence — who  seems  always 

Within  her  depths  to  bear 
The  next  sound  that  will  utter — • 

Now  holds  a  dumb  despair. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  301 

II. 

So  Alice  feels  it :  listening 

With  breathless,  stony  fear, 
Waiting  the  dreadful  summon* 

Each  minute  brings  more  near: 
When  the  young  life,  now  ebbing, 

Shall  fail,  and  pass  away 
Into  that  mighty  shadow 

Who  shrouds  the  house  to-day. 


in. 

But  why — when  the  sick-chamber 

Is  on  the  upper  floor — 
Why  dares  not  Alice  enter 

Within  the  close-shut  door  ? 
If  he — her  all — -her  Brother, 

Lies  dying  in  that  gloom, 
What  strange  mysterious  power 

Has  sent  her  from  the  room  ? 


IV. 

It  is  not  one  week's  anguish 

That  can  have  changed  her  so ; 
Joy  has  not  died  here  lately, 

Struck  down  by  one  quick  blow ; 
But  cruel  months  have  needed 

Their  long  aryl  relentless  chain, 
To  teach  that  shrinking  manner 

Of  helpless,  hopeless  pain. 


302  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

V. 

The  struggle  was  scarce  over 

Last  Christmas  eve  had  brought ; 
The  fibres  still  were  quivering 

Of  the  one  wounded  thought, 
When  Herbert — who,  unconscious, 

Had  guessed  no  inward  strife — 
Bade  her,  in  pride  and  pleasure, 

Welcome  his  fair  young  wife. 


VI. 

Bade  her  rejoice,  and  smiling, 

Although  his  eyes  were  dim, 
Thanked  God  he  thus  could  pay  her 

The  care  she  gave  to  him. 
This  fresh  bright  life  would  bring  her 

A  new  and  joyous  fate — 
O  Alice,  check  the  murmur 

That  cries,  "  Too  late !  too  late  ! " 


VII. 

Too  late  !     Could  she  have  known  it 

A  few  short  weeks  before, 
That  his  life  was  completed, 

And  needing  hers  no  more, 
She  might — O  sad  repining ! 

What  "  might  have  been  "  forget ; 
"  It  was  not "  should  suffice  us 

To  stifle  vain  regret. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  303 

VIII, 

He  needed  her  no  longer, 

Each  day  it  grew  more  plain  ; 
First  with  a  startled  wonder, 

Then  with  a  wondering  pain. 
Love :  why,  his  wife  best  gave  it ; 

Comfort :  durst  Alice  speak 
Or  counsel,  when  resentment 

Flushed  on  the  young  wife's  cheek  ? 


rx. 

No  more  long  talks  by  firelight 

Of  childish  times  long  past, 
And  dreams  of  future  greatness 

Which  he  must  reach  at  last ; 
Dreams,  where  her  purer  instinct 

With  truth  unerring  told, 
Where  was  the  worthless  gilding, 

And  where  refined  gold. 


x. 

Slowly,  but  surely  ever, 

Dora's  poor  jealous  pride, 
Which  she  called  love  for  Herbert, 

Drove  Alice  from  his  side ; 
And,  spite  of  nervous  effort 

To  share  their  altered  life, 
She  felt  a  check  to  Herbert, 

A  burden  to  his  wife. 


304  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

XI. 

This  was  the  least ;  for  Alice  . 

Feared,  dreaded,  knew  at  length 
How  much  his  nature  owed  her 

Of  truth,  and  power,  and  strength  ; 
And  watched  the  daily  failing 

Of  all  his  nobler  part : 
Low  aims,  weak  purpose,  telling 

In  lower,  weaker  art. 

XII. 

And  now,  when  he  is  dying, 

The  last  words  she  could  hear 
Must  not  be  hers,  but  given 

The  bride  of  one  short  year. 
The  last  care  is  another's ; 

The  last  prayer  must  not  be 
The  one  they  learnt  together 

Beside  their  mother's  knee. 


XIII. 

Summoned  at  last :  she  kisses 

The  clay-cold  stiffening  hand; 
And,  reading  pleading  efforts 

To  make  her  understand, 
Answers,  with  solemn  promise, 

In  clear  but  trembling  tone, 
To  Dora's  life  henceforward 

She  will  devote  her  own. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  305 

XIV. 
Now  all  is  over.     Alice 

Dares  not  remain  to  weep, 
But  soothes  the  frightened  Dora 

Into  a  sobbing  sleep. 
The  poor  weak  child  will  need  her :  .  .  . 

O,  who  can  dare  complain, 
When  God  sends  a  new  Duty 

To  comfort  each  new  Pain  I 


III. 

i. 

THE  house  is  all  deserted 

In  the  dim  evening  gloom, 
Only  one  figure  passes 

Slowly  from  room  to  room  ; 
And,  pausing  at  each  doorway, 

Seems  gathering  up  again 
Within  her  heart  the  relics 

Of  bygone  joy  and  pain. 

II. 

There  is  an  earnest  longing 

In  those  who  onward  gaze, 
Looking  with  weary  patience 

Towards  the  coming  days.    * 
There  is  a  deeper  longing, 

More  sad,  more  strong,  more  keen 
Those  know  it  who  look  backward, 

And  yearn  for  what  has  been. 
20 


306  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

III. 

At  every  hearth  she  pauses, 

Touches  each  well-known  chair ; 
Gazes  from  every  window, 

Lingers  on  every  stair. 
What  have  these  months  brought  Alice 

Now  one  more  year  is  past? 
This  Christmas  eve  shall  tell  us, 

The  third  one  and  the  last. 

IV. 

The  wilful,  wayward  Dora, 

In  those  first  weeks  of  grief, 
Could  seek  and  find  in  Alice 

Strength,  soothing,  and  relief. 
And  Alice — last  sad  comfort 

True  woman-heart  can  take — 
Had  something  still  to  suffer 

And  bear  for  Herbert's  sake. 


v. 

Spring,  with  her  western  breezes, 

From  Indian  Islands  bore 
To  Alice  news  that  Leonard 

Would  seek  his  home  once  more. 
What  was  it, — joy,  or  sorrow  ? 

What  were  they, — hopes,  or  fears  ? 
That  flushed  her  cheeks  with  crimson, 

And  filled  her  eyes  with  tears  ? 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  3Q7 

VI. 

He  came.     And  who  so  kindly 

Could  ask  and  hear  her  tell 
Herbert's  last  hours  ;  for  Leonard 

Had  known  and  loved  him  well. 
Daily  he  came  ;  and  Alice, 

Poor  weary  heart,  at  length, 
Weighed  down  by  others'  weakness, 

Could  lean  upon  his  strength. 

VII. 

Yet  not  the  voice  of  Leonard 

Could  her  true  care  beguile, 
That  turned  to  watch,  rejoicing, 

Dora's  reviving  smile. 
So,  from  that  little  household 

The  worst  gloom  passed  away, 
The  one  bright  hour  of  evening 

Lit  up  the  livelong  day. 

VIII. 

Days  passed.     The  golden  summer 

In  sudden  heat  bore  down 
Its  blue,  bright,  glowing  sweetness 

Upon  the  scorching  town. 
And  sights  and  sound*  of  country 

Came  in  the  warm  soft  tune 
Sung  by  the  honeyed  breezes 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  June. 


308  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

IX. 

One  twilight  hour,  but  earlier 

Than  usual,  Alice  thought 
She  knew  the  fresh  sweet  fragrance 

Of  flowers  that  Leonard  brought ; 
Through  opened  doors  and  windows 

It  stole  up  through  the  gloom, 
And  with  appealing  sweetness 

Drew  Alice  from  her  room. 


x. 

Yes,  he  was  there  ;  and,  pausing 

Just  near  the  open  door, 
To  check  her  heart's  quick  beating, 

She  heard — and  paused  still  more 
His  low  voice — Dora's  answers — 

His  pleading — Yes,  she  knew 
The  tone — the  words — the  accents ; 

She  once  had  heard  them  too. 


XI. 

"  Would  Alice  blame  her  ?  "     Leonard's 

Low,  tender  answer  came  : 
"  Alice  was  far  too  noble 

To  think  or  dream  of  blame. 
"And  was  he  sure  he  loved  her?  " 

"  Yes,  with  the  one  love  given 
Once  in  a  lifetime  only, 

With  one  soul  and  one  heaven  ! " 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE.  3Q9 

XII. 

Then  came  a  plaintive  murmur, — 

"  Dora  had  once  been  told 
That  he  and  Alice — "     "•  Dearest, 

Alice  is  far  too  cold 
To  love  ;  and  I,  my  Dora, 

If  once  I  fancied  so, 
It  was  a  brief  delusion, 

And  over — long  ago." 

XIII. 

Between  the  Past  and  Present, 

On  that  bleak  moment's  height, 
She  stood.     As  some  lost  traveller, 

By  a  quick  flash  of  light 
Seeing  a  gulf  before  him  ; 

With  dizzy,  sick  despair, 
Reels  backward,  but  to  find  it 

A  deeper  chasm  there. 

XIV. 

The  twilight  grew  still  darker, 

The  fragrant  flowers  more  sweet, 
The  stars  shone  out  in  heaven, 

The  lamps  gleamed  down  the  street 
And  hours  passed  in  dreaming 

Over  their  new-found  fate, 
Ere  they  could  think  of  wondering 

Why  Alice  was  so  late. 


310  THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 

XV. 

She  came,  and  calmly  listened  ; 

In  vain  they  strove  to  trace 
If  Herbert's  memory  shadowed 

In  grief  upon  her  face. 
No  blame,  no  wonder  showed  there 

No  feeling  could  be  told  ; 
Her  voice  was  not  less  steady, 

Her  manner  not  more  cold. 

XVI. 

They  could  not  hear  the  anguish 

That  broke  in  words  of  pain 
Through  the  calm  summer  midnight, — 

"  My  Herbert — mine  again  !  " 
Yes,  they  have  once  been  parted, 

But  this  day  shall  restore 
The  long-lost  one  :  she  claims  him  ; 

"  My  Herbert — mine  once  more ! " 

XVII. 

Now  Christmas  eve  returning 

Saw  Alice  stand  beside 
The  altar,  greeting  Dora, 

Again  a  smiling  bride ; 
And  now  the  gloomy  evening 

Sees  Alice  pale  and  worn, 
Leaving  the  house  forever, 

To  wander  out  forlorn. 


THE  WIND. 

XVIII. 

Forlorn — nay,  not  so.     Anguish 

Shall  do  its  work  at  length  ; 
Her  soul,  passed  through  the  fire, 

Shall  gain  still  purer  strength. 
Somewhere  there  waits  for  Alice 

An  earnest,  noble  part; 
And  meanwhile  God  is  with  her, — 

God,  and  her  own  true  heart ! 


THE  WIND. 

THE  wind  went  forth  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Loud  and  free ; 

Foaming  waves  leapt  up  to  meet  it, 
Stately  pines  bowed  down  to  greet  it ; 

While  the  wailing  sea 
And  the  forest's  murmured  sigh 

Joined  the  cry 
Of  the  wind  that  swept  o'er  land  and  sea. 

The  wind  that  blew  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
Cast  the  bark  upon  the  shore, 
Whence  it  sailed  the  night  before 

Full  of  hope  and  glee ; 
And  the  cry  of  pain  and  death 

Was  but  a  breath, 
Through  the  wind  that  roared  upon  the  sea. 


312  EXPECTATION. 

The  wind  was  whispering  on  the  lea 

Tenderly ; 

But  the  white  rose  felt  it  pass, 
And  the  fragile  stalks  of  grass 

Shook  with  fear  to  see 
All  her  trembling  petals  shed, 

As  it  fled 
So  gently  by, — the  wind  upon  the  lea. 

Blow,  thou  wind,  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
And  a  gentler  message  send, 
Where  frail  flowers  and  grasses  bend, 

On  the  sunny  lea ; 
For  thy  bidding  still  is  one, 

Be  it  done 
In  tenderness  or  wrath,  on  land  or  sea ! 


EXPECTATION. 

THE  King's  three  daughters  stood  on  the  terrace, 
The  hanging  terrace,  so  broad  and  green, 
Which  keeps  the  sea  from  the  marble  Palace : 
There  was  Princess  May,  and  Princess  Alice, 
And  the  youngest  Princess,  Gwendoline. 

Sighed  Princess  May,  "  Will  it  last  much  longer, 
Time  throbs  so  slow  and  my  Heart  so  quick  • 
And  O,  how  long  is  the  day  in  dying  ! 
Weary  am  I  of  waiting  and  sighing, 
For  Hope  deferred  makes  the  spirit  sick." 


AN  IDEAL.  313 

But  Princess  Gwendoline  smiled  and  kissed  her  : — 

"  Am  I  not  sadder  than  you,  my  Sister  ? 

Expecting  joy  is  a  happy  pain. 

The  Future's  fathomless  mine  of  treasures, 

All  countless  hordes  of  possible  pleasures, 

Might  bring  their  store  to  my  feet  in  vain." 

Sighed  Princess  Alice  as  night  grew  nearer : 
"  So  soon,  so  soon,  is  the  daylight  fled  ! 
And  O,  how  fast  comes  the  dark  to-morrow, 
Who  hides,  perhaps,  in  her  veil  of  sorrow 
The  terrible  hour  I  wait  and  dread  ! 

But  Princess  Gwendoline  kissed  her,  sighing : — 

"  It  is  only  Life  that  can  fear  dying ; 

Possible  loss  means  possible  gain. 

Those  who  still  dread  are  not  quite  forsaken; 

But  not  to  fear,  because  all  is  taken, 

Is  the  loneliest  depth  of  human  pain." 


AN  IDEAL. 

WHILE  the  gray  mists  of  early  dawn 
Were  lingering  round  the  hill, 

And  the  dew  was  still  upon  the  flowers 
And  the  earth  lay  calm  and  still, 

A  winged  Spirit  came  to  me, 

Noble,  and  radiant,  and  free. 


314:  AN  IDEAL. 

Folding  his  blue  and  shining  wings, 

He  laid  his  hand  on  mine. 
I  know  not  if  I  felt,  or  heard 

The  mystic  word  divine. 
Which  woke  the  trembling  air  to  sighs, 
And  shone  from  out  his  starry  eyes. 

The  word  he  spoke  within  my  heart 

Stirred  life  unknown  before, 
And  cast  a  spell  upon  my  soul 

To  chain  it  evermore  ; 
Making  the  cold,  dull  earth  look  bright, 
And  skies  flame  oat  in  sapphire  light. 

When  noon  ruled  from  the  heavens,  and  man 

Through  busy  day  toiled  on, 
My  Spirit  drooped  his  shining  wings ; 

His  radiant  smile  was  gone ; 
His  voice  had  ceased,  his  grace  had  flown, 
His  hand  grew  cold  within  my  own. 

Bitter,  O  bitter  tears  I  wept, 

Yet  still  I  held  his  hand, 
Hoping  with  vague  unreasoning  hope : 

I  would  not  understand 
That  this  pale  Spirit  nevermore 
Could  be  what  he  had  been  before. 

Could  it  be  so  ?     My  heart  stood  still. 

Yet  he  was  by  my  side. 
I  strove ;  but  my  despair  was  vain ; 

Vain  too  was  love  and  pride. 


OUR  DEAD.  315 

Could  he  have  changed  to  me  so  soon  ? 
My  day  was  only  at  its  noon. 

Now  stars  are  rising  one  by  one, 

Through  the  dim  evening  air  ; 
Near  me  a  household  Spirit  waits, 

With  tender  loving  care  ; 
He  speaks  and  smiles,  but  never  sings, 
Long  since  he  lost  his  shining  wings. 

With  thankful,  true  content,  I  know, 

This  is  the  better  way  ; 
Is  not  a  faithful  spirit  mine — 

Mine  still — at  close  of  day  ?  .  . 
Yet  will  my  foolish  heart  repine 
For  that  bright  morning  dream  of  mine. 


OUR  DEAD. 

NOTHING  is  our  own  :  we  hold  our  pleasures 
Just  a  little  while,  ere  they  are  fled  ; 
One  by  one  life  robs  us  of  our  treasures ; 
Nothing  is  our  own  except  our  Dead. 

They  are  ours,  and  hold  in  faithful  keeping, 
Safe  forever,  all  they  took  away. 
Cruel  life  can  never  stir  that  sleeping. 
Cruel  time  can  never  seize  that  prey. 

Justice  pales ;  truth  fades  ;  stirs  fall  from  heaven ; 
Human  are  the  great  whom  we  revere  : 
No  true  crown  of  honor  can  be  given, 
Till  we  place  it  on  a  funeral  bier. 


316  OUR  DEAD. 

How  the  Children  leave  us:  and  no  traces 
Linger  of  that  smiling  angel  band  : 
Gone,  forever  gone ;  and  in  their  places 
Weary  men  and  anxious  women  stand. 

Yet  we  have  some  little  ones,  still  ours ; 
They  have  kept  the  baby  smile  we  know, 
Which  we  kissed  one  day,  and  hid  with  flowers 
On  their  dead  white  faces,  long  ago. 

When  our  Joy  is  lost — and  life  will  take  it — 
Then  no  memory  of  the  past  remains  ; 
Save  with  some  strange,  cruel  sting,  to  make  it 
Bitterness  beyond  all  present  pains. 

Death,  more  tender-hearted,  leaves  to  sorrow 
Still  the  radiant  shadow,  fond  regret : 
We  shall  find,  in  some  far,  bright  to-morrow, 
Joy  that  he  has  taken,  living  yet. 

Is  Love  ours,  and  do  we  dream  we  know  it, 
Bound  with  all  our  heart-strings,  all  our  own  ? 
Any  cold  and  cruel  dawn  may  show  it, 
Shattered,  desecrated,  overthrown. 

Only  the  dead  Hearts  forsake  us  never ; 
Death's  last  kiss  has  been  the  mystic  sign 
Consecrating  Love  our  own  forever, 
Crowning  it  eternal  and  divine. 

So  when  Fate  would  fain  besiege  our  city, 
Dim  our  gold,  or  make  our  flowers  fall, 
Death,  the  Angel,  comes  in  love  and  pity, 
And,  to  save  our  treasures,  claims  them  all. 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER.  317 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

I  WILL  not  let  you  say  a  Woman's  part 
Must  be  to  give  exclusive  love  alone  ; 

Dearest,  although  I  love  you  so,  my  heart 
Answers  a  thousand  claims  besides  your  own. 

I  love — what  do  I  not  love  ?  earth  and  air 

Find  space  within  my  heart,  and  myriad  things 

You  would  not  deign  to  heed  are  cherished  there, 
And  vibrate  on  its  very  inmost  strings. 

I  love  the  Summer  with  her  ebb  and  flow 

Of  light,  and  warmth,  and  music,  that  have  nurst 

Her  tender  buds  to  blossoms  .  .  .  and  you  know 
It  was  in  summer  that  I  saw  you  first. 

I  love  the  Winter  deaTly,  too,  .  .  .  but  then 
I  owe  it  so  much  ;  on  a  winter's  day, 

Bleak,  cold,  and  stormy,  you  returned  again, 
When  you  had  been  those  weary  months  away. 

I  love  the  Stars  like  friends ;  so  many  nights 
I  gazed  at  them,  when  you  were  far  from  me, 

Till  I  grew  blind  with  tears  ....  those  far-off  lights 
Could  watch  you,  whom  I  longed  in  vain  to  see. 

I  love  the  Flowers  ;  happy  hours  lie 

Shut  up  within  their  petals  close  and  fast : 

You  have  forgotten,  dear ;  but  they  and  I 
Keep  every  fragment  of  the  golden  Past. 


31  g  A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

I  love,  too,  to  be  loved ;  all  loving  praise 
Seems  like  a  crown  upon  my  Life, — to  make 

It  better  worth  the  giving,  and  to  raise 

Still  nearer  to  your  own  the  heart  you  take. 

I  love  all  good  and  noble  souls ; — I  heard 
One  speak  of  you  but  lately,  and  for  days, 

Only  to  think  of  it,  my  soul  was  stirred 

In  the  tender  memory  of  such  generous  praise. 

I  love  all  those  who  love  you ;  all  who  owe 
Comfort  to  you  :  and  I  can  find  regret 

Even  for  those  poorer  hearts  who  once  could  know 
And  once  could  love  you,  and  can  now  forget. 

Well,  is  my  heart  so  narrow, — I,  who  spare 
Love  for  all  these?     Do  I  not  even  hold 

My  favorite  books  in  special  tender  care, 
And  prize  them  as  a  miser  does  his  gold? 

The  Poets  that  you  used  to  read  to  me 

While  summer  twilights  faded  in  the  sky ; 

But  most  of  all  I  think  Aurora  Leigh, 

Because — because — do  you  remember  why? 

Will  you  be  jealous  ?     Did  you  guess  before 
I  loved  so  many  things  ?     Still  you  the  best : — 

Dearest,  remember  that  I  love  you  more, 
O,  more  a  thousand  times,  than  all  the  rest ! 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL.         319 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL. 

FOUNDED   ON  AN   OLD   FRENCH  LEGEND. 

THE  fettered  Spirits  linger 

In  purgatorial  pain, 
With  penal  fires  effacing 

Their  last  faint  earthly  stain, 
Which  Life's  imperfect  sorrow 

Had  tried  to  cleanse  in  vain. 

Yet,  on  each  feast  of  Mary 

Their  sorrow  finds  release, 
For  the  Great  Archangel  Michael 

Comes  down  and  bids  it  cease  ; 
And  the  name  of  these  brief  respites 

Is  called,  "  Our  Lady's  Peace." 

Yet  once — so  runs  the  Legend — 

When  the  Archangel  came, 
And  all  these  holy  spirits 

Rejoiced  at  Mary's  name, 
One  voice  alone  was  wailing, 

Still  wailing  on  the  same. 

And  though  a  great  Te  Deum 

The  happy  echoes  woke, 
This  one  discordant  wailing 

Through  the  sweet  voices  broke : 
So  when  St.  Michael  questioned, 

Thus  the  poor  spirit  spoke  : — 


320        THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL. 

"  I  am  not  cold  or  thankless, 
Although  I  still  complain ; 

I  prize  our  Lady's  blessing, 
Although  it  comes  in  vain 

To  still  my  bitter  anguish, 
Or  quench  my  ceaseless  pain. 

"  On  earth  a  heart  that  loved  me 
Still  lives  and  mourns  me  there, 

And  the  shadow  of  his  anguish 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear  ; 

All  the  torment  that  I  suffer 
In  the  thought  of  his  despair. 

"  The  evening  of  my  bridal 
Death  took  my  Life  away ; 

Not  all  Love's  passionate  pleading 
Could  gain  an  hour's  delay. 

And  he  I  left  has  suffered 
A  whole  year  since  that  day. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  him, — 

If  I  could  only  go 
And  speak  one  word  of  comfort 

And  solace, — then  I  know 
He  would  endure  with  patience, 

And  strive  against  his  woe." 

Thus  the  Archangel  answered: 
"  Your  time  of  pain  is  brief, 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL.        321 

And  soon  the  peace  of  Heaven 

Will  give  you  full  relief ; 
Yet  if  his  earthly  comfort 

So  much  outweighs  your  grief. 

"  Then  through  a  special  mercy 

I  offer  you  this  grace, — 
You  may  seek  him  who  mourns  you, 

And  look  upon  his  face, 
And  speak  to  him  of  comfort 

For  one  short  minute's  space. 

"  But  when  that  time  is  ended, 

Return  here,  and  remain 
A  thousand  years  in  torment, 

A  thousand  years  in  pain  : 
Thus  dearly  must  you  purchase 

The  comfort  he  will  gain." 

*  *  *  * 

The  Lime-trees'  shade  at  evening 
Is  spreading  broad  and  wide ; 

Beneath  their  fragrant  arches, 
Pace  slowly,  side  by  side, 

In  low  and  tender  converse, 
A  Bridegroom  and  his  Bride. 

The  night  is  calm  and  stilly, 

No  other  sound  is  there 
Except  their  happy  voices : 

What  is  that  cold  bleak 'air 
That  passes  through  the  Lime-trees, 

And  stirs  the  Bridegroom's  hair  ? 
21 


322  A  CONTRAST. 

While  one  low  cry  of  anguish, 
Like  the  last  dying  wail 

Of  some  dumb,  hunted  creature, 
Is  borne  upon  the  gale  ;— 

Why  does  the  Bridegroom  shudder 
And  turn  so  deathly  pale  ? 


Near  Purgatory's  entrance 
The  radiant  Angels  wait ; 

It  was  the  great  St.  Michael 
Who  closed  that  gloomy  gate, 

When  the  poor  wandering  spirit 
Came  back  to  meet  her  fate. 

"  Pass  on,"  thus  spoke  the  Angel : 
*'  Heaven's  joy  is  deep  and  vast ; 

Pass  on,  pass  on,  poor  Spirit, 
For  Heaven  is  yours  at  last ; 

In  that  one  minute's  anguish 

Your  thousand  years  have  passed.' 


A  CONTRAST. 

CAN  you  open  that  ebony  Casket  ? 

Look,  this  is  the  key :  but  stay, 
Those  are  only  a  few  old  letters 

Which  I  keep, — to  burn  some  day. 


A  CONTRAST.  333 

Yes,  that  Locket  is  quaint  and  ancient ; 

But  leave  it,  dear,  with  the  ring, 
4.nd  give  me  the  little  Portrait 

Which  hangs  by  a  crimson  string. 

I  have  never  opened  that  Casket 

Since,  many  long  years  ago, 
It  was  sent  me  back  in  anger 
By  one  whom  I  used  to  know. 

But  I  want  you  to  see  the  Portrait ; 

I  wonder  if  you  can  trace 
A  look  of  that  smiling  creature 

Left  now  in  my  faded  face. 

It  was  like  me  once  ;  but  remember 

The  weary,  relentless  years, 
And  Life,  with  its  fierce  brief  tempests, 

And  its  long,  long  rain  of  tears. 

Is  it  strange  to  call  it  my  Portrait  ? 

Nay,  smile,  dear,  for  well  you  may, 
To  think  of  that  radiant  Vision 

And  of  what  I  am  to-day. 

With  restless,  yet  confident  longing, 
How  those  blue  eyes  seem  to  gaze 

Into  deep  and  exhaustless  treasures, 
All  hid  in  the  coming  days. 

With  that  trust  which  leans  on  the  Future, 
And  counts  on  her  promised  store, 

Until  she  has  taught  us  to  tremble 
And  hope, — but  to  trust  no  more. 


334  A  CONTRAST. 

How  that  young,  light  heart  would  have  pitied 
Me  now — if  her  dreams  had  shown 

A  quiet  and  weary  woman 
With  all  her  illusions  flown. 

Yet  I — who  shall  soon  be  resting, 
And  have  passed  the  hardest  part — 

Can  look  back  with  a  deeper  pity 
On  that  young,  unconscious  heart. 

It  is  strange ;  but  Life's  currents  drift  us 

So  surely  and  swiftly  on, 
That  we  scarcely  notice  the  changes, 

And  how  many  things  are  gone  : 

And  forget,  while  to-day  absorbs  us, 
How  old  mysteries  are  unsealed ; 

How  the  old,  old  ties  are  loosened, 
And  the  old,  old  wounds  are  healed. 

And  we  say  that  our  Life  is  fleeting 
Like  a  story  that  Time  has  told ; 

But  we  fancy  that  we — we  only — 
Are  just  what  we  were  of  old. 

So  now  and  then  it  is  wisdom 

To  gaze,  as  I  do  to-day, 
At  a  half-forgotten  relic 

Qf  a  Time  that  is  passed  away. 

The  very  look  of  that  Portrait, 
The  perfume  that  seems  to  cling 

To  those  fragile  and  faded  letters, 
And  the  Locket,  and  the  Ring. 


THE  BRIDE'S  DREAM.  325 

If  they  only  stirred  in  my  spirit 
Forgotten  pleasure  and  pain, — 

Why,  memory  is  often  bitter, 
And  almost  always  in  vain : 

But  the  contrast  of  bygone  hours 

Comes  to  rend  a  veil  away, — 
And  I  marvel  to  see  the  stranger 

Who  is  living  in  me  to-day. 


THE  BRIDE'S  DREAM. 

THE  stars  are  gleaming ; 

The  maiden  sleeps, — 
What  is  she  dreaming? 

For  see — she  weeps. 
By  her  side  is  an  Angel 

With  folded  wings ; 
While  the  Maiden  slumbers 

The  Angel  sings : 
He  sings  of  a  Bridal, 

Of  Love,  of  Pain, 
Of  a  heart  to  be  given, 

And  all  in  vain  ; 
(See,  her  cheek  is  flushing, 

As  if  with  pain ;) 
He  telleth  of  sorrow, 

Regrets  and  fears, 


326  THE  BRIDE'S  DREAM. 

And  the  few  vain  pleasures 
We  buy  with  tears  ; 

And  the  bitter  lesson 
We  learn  from  years. 


The  stars  are  gleaming 

Upon  her  brow : 
What  is  she  dreaming 

So  calmly  now  ? 
By  her  side  is  the  Angel 

With  folded  wings ; 
She  smiles  in  her  slumber 

The  while  he  sings. 
He  sings  of  a  Bridal, 

Of  Love  divine  ; 
Of  a  heart  to  be  laid 

On  a  sacred  shrine  ; 
Of  a  crown  of  glory, 

Where  seraphs  shine ; 
Of  the  deep,  long  rapture 

The  chosen  know 
Who  forsake  for  Heaven 

Vain  joys  below, 
Who  desire  no  pleasure, 

And  fear  no  woe. 


The  Bells  are  ringing, 
The  sun  shines  clear, 

The  Choir  is  singing, 
The  guests  are  here. 


THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING.  327 

Before  the  High  Altar 

Behold  the  Bride; 
And  a  mournful  Angel 

Is  by  her  side. 
She  smiles,  all  content 

With  her  chosen  lot, — 
(Is  her  last  night's  dreaming 

So  soon  forgot  ?) 
And  oh,  may  the  Angel 

Forsake  her  not ! 
For  on  her  small  hand 

There  glitters  plain 
The  first  sad  link 

Of  a  life-long  chain  ; — 
And  she  needs  his  guiding, 

Through  paths  of  pain. 


THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING. 

NOT  a  sound  is  heard  in  the  Convent ; 

The  Vesper  Chant  is  sung, 
The  sick  have  all  been  tended, 
The  poor  nun's  toils  are  ended 
Till  the  Matin  bell  has  rung. 
All  is  still,  save  the  clock,  that  is  ticking 
So  loud  in  the  frosty  air, 
And  the  soft  snow,  falling  as  gently 
As  an  answer  to  a  prayer, 


328  THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING. 

But  an  Angel  whispers,  "  O  Sister, 
You  must  rise  from  your  bed  to  pray  ; 
In  the  silent,  deserted  chapel, 
You  must  kneel  till  the  dawn  of  day ; 
For,  far  on  the  desolate  moorland, 
So  dreary,  and  bleak,  and  white, 
There  is  one,  all  alone  and  helpless, 
In  peril  of  death  to-night. 

"  No  sound  on  the  moorland  to  guide  him, 

No  star  in  the  murky  air ; 
And  he  thinks  of  his  home  and  his  loved  ones, 

With  the  tenderness  of  despair ; 
He  has  wandered  for  hours  in  the  snow-drift, 

And  he  strives  to  stand  in  vain, 
And  so  lies  down  to  dream  of  his  children, 
And  never  to  rise  again. 

Then  kneel  in  the  silent  chapel 
Till  the  dawn  of  to-morrow's  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  Lord  you  worship, 
For  the  life  of  that  desolate  one  ; 
And  the  smiling  eyes  of  his  children 
Will  gladden  his  heart  again, 
And  the  grateful  tears  of  God's  poor  ones 
Will  fall  on  your  soul  like  rain  ! 

"  Yet,  leave  him  alone  to  perish, 
And  the  grace  of  your  God  implore, 

With  all  the  strength  of  your  spirit, 
For  one  who  needs  it  more. 


SPRING.  329 

Far  away,  in  the  gleaming  city, 

Amid  perfume,  and  song,  and  light, 

A  soul  that  Jesus  has  ransomed 
Is  in  peril  of  sin  to-night. 

"  The  Tempter  is  close  beside  him, 

And  his  danger  is  all  forgot, 
And  the  far-off  voices  of  childhood 

Call  aloud,  but  he  hears  them  not ; 
He  sayeth  no  prayer,  and  his  mother — 

He  thinks  not  of  her  to-day, 
And  he  will  not  look  up  to  heaven, 

And  his  Angel  is  turning  away. 

"  Then  pray  for  a  soul  in  peril, 

A  soul  for  which  Jesus  died ; 
Ask,  by  the  cross  that  bore  Him, 

And  by  her  who  stood  beside  ; 
And  the  Angels  of  God  will  thank  you, 

And  bend  from  their  thrones  of  light, 
To  tell  you  that  Heaven  rejoices 

At  the  deed  you  have  done  to-night." 


SPRING. 

HARK  !  the  hours  are  softly  calling, 

Bidding  Spring  arise, 
To  listen  to  the  rain-drops  falling 

From  th$  cloudy  skies, 


330  SPRING. 

To  listen  to  Earth's  weary  voices, 

Louder  every  day, 
Bidding  her  no  longer  linger 

On  her  charmed  way ; 
But  hasten  to  her  task  of  beauty 

Scarcely  yet  begun ; 
By  the  first  bright  day  of  Summer 

It  should  all  be  done. 
She  has  yet  to  loose  the  fountain 

From  its  iron  chain ; 
And  to  make  the  barren  mountain 

Green  and  bright  again ; 
She  must  clear  the  snow  that  lingers 

Round  the  stalks  away, 
And  let  the  snow-drop's  trembling  whiteness, 

See  the  light  of  day. 

She  must  watch,  and  warm,  and  cherish 

Every  blade  of  green, 
Till  the  tender  grass  appearing 

From  the  earth  is  seen ; 
She  must  bring  the  golden  crocus 

From  her  hidden  store ; 
She  must  spread  broad  showers  of  daisief 

Each  day  more  and  more. 
In  each  hedge-row  she  must  hasten 

Cowslips  sweet  to  set ; 
Primroses  in  rich  profusion, 

With  bright  dew-drops  wet, 
And  under  every  leaf,  in  shadow 

Hide  a  violet ! 


SPRING.  331 

Every  tree  within  the  forest 

Must  be  decked  anew ; 
And  the  tender  buds  of  promise 

Should  be  peeping  through, 
Folded  deep,  and  almost  hidden, 

Leaf  by  leaf  beside, 
What  will  make  the  Summer's  glory, 

And  the  Autumn's  pride. 
She  must  weave  the  loveliest  carpets, 

Checkered  sun  and  shade, 
Every  wood  must  have  such  pathways, 

Laid  in  every  glade ; 
She  must  hang  laburnum  branches 

On  each  arched  bough ; — 
And  the  white  and  purple  lilac 

Should  be  waving  now ; 
She  must  breathe,  and  cold  winds  vanish 

At  her  breath  away ; 
And  then  load  the  air  around  her 

With  the  scent  of  May ! 
Listen  then,  O  Spring  !  nor  linger 

On  thy  charmed  way  ; 
Have  pity  on  thy  prisoned  flowers 

Wearying  for  the  day. 
Listen  to  the  rain-drops  falling 

From  the  cloudy  skies ; 
Listen  to  the  hours  calling, 

Bidding  thee  arise. 


332  EVENING  HYMN. 


EVENING  HYMN. 

THE  shadows  of  the  evening  hours 
Fall  from  the  darkening  sky ; 

Upon  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers 
The  dews  of  evening  lie ; 

Before  thy  throne,  O  Lord  of  Heaven, 
We  kneel  at  close  of  day  ; 

Look  on  thy  children  from  on  high, 

And  hear  us  while  we  pray. 

The  sorrows  of  thy  servants,  Lord, 

O  do  not  thou  despise  ; 
But  let  the  incense  of  our  prayers 

Before  thy  mercy  rise  ; 
The  brightness  of  the  coming  night 

Upon  the  darkness  rolls  : 
With  hopes  of  future  glory  chase 

The  shadows  on  our  souls. 

Slowly  the  rays  of  daylight  fade  ; 

So  fade  within  our  heart 
The  hopes  in  earthly  love  and  joy, 

That  one  by  one  depart : 
Slowly  the  bright  stars,  one  by  one, 

Within  the  heavens  shine  ; — 
Give  us,  O  Lord,  fresh  hopes  in  Jleaven, 

And  trust  in  things  divine, 


THE  INNER  CHAMBER.  333 

Let  peace,  O  Lord,  thy  peace,  O'God, 

Upon  our  souls  descend ; 
From  midnight  fears  and  perils,  thou 

Our  trembling  hearts  defend ; 
Give  us  a  respite  from  our  toil, 

Calm  and  subdue  our  woes ; 
Through  the  long  d&y  we  suffer,  Lord, 

O  give  us  now  repose  ! 


THE  INNER  CHAMBER. 

IN  the  outer  Court  I  was  singing, 
Was  singing  the  whole  day  long  ; 

From  the  inner  chamber  were  ringing 
Echoes  repeating  my  song. 

And  I  sang  till  it  grew  immortal; 

For  that  very  song  of  mine, 
When  re-echoed  behind  the  Portal, 

Was  filled  with  a  life  divine. 

Was  the  Chamber  a  silver  round 
Of  arches,  whose  magical  art 
Drew  in  coils  of  musical  sound, 
And  cast  them  back  on  my  heart  ? 

Was  there  hidden  within  a  lyre 

Which,  as  air  breathed  over  its  strings, 

Filled  my  song  with  a  soul  of  fire, 
And  sent  back  my  words  with  wings  ? 


334  HEARTS. 

Was  some  seraph  imprisoned  there, 
Whose  Voice  made  my  song  complete, 

And  whose  lingering,  soft  despair 
Made  the  echo  so  faint  and  sweet? 

Long  I  trembled  and  paused, — then  parted 
The  curtains  with  heavy  fringe ; 

And,  half  fearing,  yet  eager-hearted, 
Turned  the  door  on  its  golden  hinge. 

Now  I  sing  in  the  court  once  more, 

I  sing  and  I  weep  all  day, 
As  I  kneel  by  the  close-shut  door, 

For  I  know  what  the  echoes  say. 

Yet  I  sing  not  the  song  of  old, 

Ere  I  knew  whence  the  echo  came, 

Ere  I  opened  the  door  of  gold ; 

But  the  music  sounds  just  the  same. 

Then  take  warning,  and  turn  away  ; 

Do  not  ask  of  that  hidden  thing, 
Do  not  guess  what  the  echoes  say, 

Or  the  meaning  of  what  I  sing. 


HEARTS. 

I. 

A  TRINKET  made  like  a  Heart,  dear, 
Of  red  gold,  bright  and  fine, 

Was  given  to  me  for  a  keepsake, 
Given  to  me  for  mine. 


HEARTS.  335 

And  another  heart,  warm  and  tender, 

As  true  as  a  heart  could  be ; 
And  every  throb  that  stirred  it 

Was  always  and  all  for  me. 

Sailing  over  the  waters, 

Watching  the  far  blue  land, 
I  dropped  my  golden  heart,  dear, 

Dropped  it  out  of  my  hand  ! 

It  lies  in  the  cold,  blue  waters, 

Fathoms  and  fathoms  deep, 
The  golden  heart  which  I  promised 

Promised  to  prize  and  keep. 

Gazing  at  Life's  bright  visions, 

So  false,  and  fair,  and  new, 
I  forgot  the  other  heart,  dear, 

Forgot  it  and  lost  it  too  ! 

I  might  seek  that  heart  forever, 
I  might  seek  and  seek  in  vain  ; — 

And  for  one  short,  careless  hour, 
I  pay  with  a  life  of  pain. 

II. 

THE  Heart  ? — Yes,  I  wore  it 

As  sign  and  as  token 
Of  a  love  that  once  gave  it, 

A  vow  that  was  spoken  ; 
But  a  love,  and  a  vow,  and  a  heart 

Can  be  broken. 


336  HEARTS. 

The  Love  ?— Life  and  Death 
Are  crushed  into  a  day, 

So  what  wonder  that  Love 
Should  as  soon  pass  away, — 

What  wonder  I  saw  it 
Fade,  fail,  and  decay? 

The  Vow  ? — why  what  was  it  ? 

It  snapped  like  a  thread ; 
Who  cares  for  the  corpse 

When  the  spirit  is  fled  ? 
Then  I  said,  "  Let  the  Dead  rise 

And  bury  its  dead, 

"  While  the  true,  living  future 
Grows  pure,  wise,  and  strong." 

So  I  cast  the  gold  heart 
I  had  worn  for  so  long 

In  the  Lake,  and  bound  on  it 
A  Stone — and  a  Wrong ! 

III. 

LOOK,  this  little  golden  Heart 

Was  a  true-love  shrine 
For  a  tress  of  hair  ;  I  held  them, 

Heart  and  tress,  as  mine, 
Like  the  Love  which  gave  the  token 
See,  to-day  the  Heart  is  broken ! 

Broken  is  the  golden  heart, 

Lost  the  tress  of  hair  ; 
Ah,  the  shrine  is  empty,  vacant, 

Desolate  and  bare ! 


TWO  LOVES.  337 

So  the  token  should  depart, 
When  Love  dies  within  the  heart. 

Fast  and  deep  the  river  floweth, 

Floweth  to  the  west ; 
I  will  cast  the  golden  trinket 

In  its  cold  dark  breast: — 
Flow,  O  river,  deep  and  fast, 
Over  all  the  buried  past ! 


TWO  LOVES. 

DEEP  within  my  heart  of  hearts,  dear, 
Bound  with  all  its  strings, 

Two  Loves  are  together  reigning, 
Both  are  crowned  like  Kings ; 

While  my  life,  still  uncomplaining, 
Rests  beneath  their  wings. 

So  they  both  will  rule  my  heart,  dear, 

Till  it  cease  to  beat ; 
No  sway  can  be  deeper,  stronger, 

Truer,  more  complete ; 
Growing,  as  it  lasts  the  longer 

Sweeter,  and  more  sweet. 

One  all  life  and  time  transfigures ; 

Piercing  through  and  through 
Meaner  things  with  magic  splendor, 

Old,  yet  ever  new : 
This — so  strong  and  yet  so  tender — 

Is  ...  my  Love  for  you. 


338  A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

Should  it  fail,  — forgive  my  doubting 
In  this  world  of  pain, — 

Yet  my  other  Love  would  ever 
Steadfastly  remain ; 

And  I  know  that  I  could  never 
Turn  to  that  in  vain. 

Though  its  radiance  may  be  fainter, 

Yet  its  task  is  wide  ; 
For  it  lives  to  comfort  sorrows, 

Strengthen,  calm,  and  guide, 
And  from  Trust  and  Honor  borrows 

All  its  peace  and  pride. 

Will  you  blame  my  dreaming,  even 

If  the  first  were  flown  ? 
Ah,  I  would  not  live  without  it, 

It  is  all  your  own  : 
And  the  other — can  you  doubt  it  ? — 

Yours,  and  yours  alone. 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

WELL — the  links  are  broken, 

All  is  past ; 
This  farewell,  when  spoken, 

Is  the  last. 
I  have  tried  and  striven 

All  in  vain ; 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD.  339 

Such  bond  must  be  riven, 

Spite  of  pain, 
And  never,  never,  never 

Knit  again. 

So  I  tell  you  plainly, 

It  must  be : 
I  shall  try,  not  vainly, 

To  be  free ; 
Truer,  happier  chances 

Wait  me  yet, 
While  you,  through  fresh  fancies, 

Can  forget ; — 
And  life  has  nobler  uses 

Than  Regret. 

All  past  words  retracing, 

One  by  one, 
Does  not  help  effacing 

What  is  done. 
Let  it  be.     O,  stronger 

Links  can  break ! 
Had  we  dreamed  still  longer 

We  could  wake, — 
Yet  let  us  part  in  kindness 

For  Love's  sake. 

Bitterness  and  sorrow 

Will  at  last, 
In  some  bright  to-morrow, 

Heal  their  past. 


340  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

But  future  hearts  will  never 

Be  as  true 
As  mine  was — is  ever. 

Dear,  for  you  .  .  . 
•  •  Then  must  we  part,  when  loving 

As  we  do  ? 


PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

"  LINGER/'  I  cried,  "  O  radiant  Time  !  thy  power 
Has  nothing  more  to  give  ,  life  is  complete  : 
Let  but  the  perfect  Present,  hour  by  hour, 
Itself  remember  and  itself  repeat. 

"  And  Love, — the  future  can  but  mar  its  splendor, 
Change  can  but  dim  the  glory  of  its  youth ; 
Time  has  no  star  more  faithful  or  more  tender 
To  crown  its  constancy  or  light  its  truth." 

But  Time  passed  on  in  spite  of  prayer  or  pleading, 
Through  storm  and  peril ;  but  that  life  might  gain 
A  Peace  through  strife  all  other  peace  exceeding, 
Fresh  joy  from  sorrow,  and  new  hope  from  pain. 

And  since  Love  lived  when  all  save  Love  was  dying, 
And,   passed   through  fire,  grew  stronger   than  be- 
fore : — 

Dear,  you  know  why,  in  double  faith  relying, 
I  prize  the  Past  much,  but  the  Present  more. 


FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


FOR  THE  FUTURE. 

I  WONDER  did  you  ever  count 
The  value  of  one  human  fate  ; 
Or  sum  the  infinite  amount 
Of  one  heart's  treasures,  and  the  weight 
Of  Life's  one  venture,  and  the  whole  concentrate 
purpose  of  a  soul. 

And  if  you  ever  pause  to  think 
That  all  this  in  your  hands  I  laid 
Without  a  fear  : — did  you  not  shrink 
From  such  a  burden  ?  half  afraid, 
Half  wishing  that  you  could  divide  the  risk,  or  cast  it 
all  aside. 

While  Love  has  daily  perils,  such 
As  none  foresee  and  none  control ; 
And  hearts  are  strung  so  that  one  touch, 
Careless  or  rough,  may  jar  the  whole, 
You  well  might  feel   afraid  to  reign  with  absolute 
power  of  joy  and  pain. 

You  well  might  fear — if  Love's  sole  claim 
Were  to  be  happy :  but  true  Love 
Takes  joy  as  solace  ;  not  as  aim, 
And  looks  beyond,  and  looks  above  ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  bitterest  strife,  first  learn^ 
Jo  live  her  highest  life, 


342  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 

Earth  forges  joy  into  a  chain 
Till  fettered  Love  forgets  its  strength, 
Its  purpose,  and  its  end  ; — but  Pain 
Restores  its  heritage  at  length, 
And  bids   Love  rise  again  and  be  eternal,  mighty, 
pure,  and  free. 

If  then  your  future  life  should  need 
A  strength  my  Love  can  only  gain 
Through  suffering,  or  my  heart  be  freed 
Only  by  sorrow  from  some  stain, 
Then  you  shall  give,  and  I  will  take,  this  Crown  of 
fire  for  Love's  dear  sake. 


A    CHAPLET    OF    VERSES. 


PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF 

THE  PEOVIDENCE  ROW  NIGHT  REFUGE. 

FOB 

HOMELESS  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THERE  is  scarcely  any  charitable  institution  which 
should  excite  such  universal,  such  unhesitating  sym- 
pathy, as  a  Night  Refuge  for  the  Homeless  Poor. 

A  shelter  through  the  bleak  winter  nights,  leave 
to  rest  in  some  poor  shed  instead  of  wandering 
through  the  pitiless  streets,  is  a  boon  we  could  hardly 
deny  to  a  starving  dog.  And  yet*  we  have  all  known 
that  in  this  country,  in  this  town,  many  of  our  mis- 
erable fellow-creatures  were  pacing  the  streets 
through  the  long  weary  nights,  without  a  roof  to 
shelter  them,  without  food  to  eat,  with  their  poor  rags 
soaked  in  rain,  and  only  the  bitter  winds  of  Heaven 
for  companions ;  women  and  children  utterly  forlorn 
and  helpless,  either  wandering  about  all  night,  or 
crouching  under  a  miserable  archway,  or,  worst  of 
all,  seeking  in  death  or  sin  the  refuge  denied  them 
elsewhere.  It  is  a  marvel  that  we  could  sleep  in 
peace  in  our  warm,  comfortable  homes  with  this  hor- 
ror at  our  very  door. 

But  at  last  some  efforts  were  made  to  efface  this 
stain  upon  our  country,  public  sympathy  was  appealed 
to,  and  a  few  "  Refuges  "  were  opened,  to  shelter  our 
homeless  poor  through  the  winter  nights. 

In  the  autumn  of  1860  there  was  no  Catholic  Ref- 
uge in  the  kingdom ;  and  excellent  as  were  the  Prot- 


348  INTRODUCTION. 

estant  Refuges,  their  resources  were  quite  inadequate 
to  meet  the  claims  upon  them. 

In. this  country,  as  we  all  know,  the  very  poorest 
and  most  destitute  are  in  many  cases  Catholics ;  and 
doubtless  our  Priests,  to  whom  no  form  of  sin  or  sor- 
row is  strange,  must  see  in  a  special  manner,  and  in 
innumerable  results  the  sufferings,  dangers,  and  temp- 
tations, of  the  homeless.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Gilbert  there- 
fore resolved  to  open  a  Catholic  Night  Refuge  in  his 
parish,  and  to  his  zealous  charity  and  unwearied 
efforts  are  due  the  foundation  and  success  of  the 
PROVIDENCE  Row  &IGHT  REFUGE  FOR  HOMELESS 
WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN  ;  the  first  Catholic  Refuge 
in  England  or  Ireland,  and  still  the  only  one  in  Eng- 
land. 

The  Sisters  of  Mercy  had  long  been  aiding  their 
pastor  in  the  schools  of  the  parish,  and  when  this 
new  opening  for  their  charity  was  suggested  to  them, 
they  unhesitatingly  accepted  a  task,  worthy  indeed 
of  the  holy  name  they  bear.  They  were  seeking  for 
some  house  more  suitable  for  a  Convent  than  the  one 
they  had  hitherto  occupied  in  Broad  Street;  and 
when  Dr.  Gilbert  saw  the  large  stable  at  the  back  of 
14  Finsbury  Square,  he  felt  that  here  was  a  suitable 
place  for  his  long-cherished  plan  of  Night  Refuge. 
It  was  separated  from  the  house  by  a  yard,  and 
opened  on  a  narrow  street  at  the  back,  already  called, 
with  a  happy  appropriateness,  Providence  Row.  To 
Finsbury  Square  therefore  the  community  removed, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  stable  was  fitted  up 
with  wooden  beds  and  benches,  the  few  preparations 


INTRODUCTION.  349 

were  completed,  and  on  the  7th  of  October,  1860,  the 
Refuge  was  opened.  At  first  there  were  but  fourteen 
beds,  but  contributions  flowed  in  from  Protestants  as 
well  as  Catholics,  and  in  February,  1861,  thirty -one 
more  beds  were  added,  making  in  all  forty-five.  But 
as  many  of  the  poor  women  have  children  with  them, 
rarely  less  than  sixty  persons  are  each  night  admitted. 
Up  to  the  present  time,  fourteen  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-five  nights'  lodgings  have  been 
given,  with  the  same  number  of  suppers  and  break- 
fasts. 

From  six  to  eight  are  the  hours  of  admission ;  but 
this  is  indeed  a  needless  rule,  for  a  crowd  of  ragged 
women  with  pale,  weary  children  clinging  to  them, 
are  waiting  patiently  long  before  the  doors  are 
opened,  and  the  place  is  filled  at  once. 

Means  for  washing  are  given  them,  they  rest  them- 
selves in  warmth,  light,  and  peace,  and  at  eight 
o'clock  each  person  receives  half  a  pound  of  bread 
and  a  large  basin  of  excellent  gruel.  Night  prayers 
are  said  by  one  of  the  Sisters,  and  then  the  poor 
wanderers  lie  down  in  their  rude  but  clean  and  com- 
fortable beds.  They  have  the  same  meal  in  the 
morning. 

Those  who  come  on  Saturday  evening  remain  till 
Monday,  receiving  on  Sunday,  besides  the  usual  break- 
fast and  supper,  an  extra  half-pound  of  bread,  and  a 
good  supply  of  meat  soup.  There  is  no  distinction 
of  creed ;  Protestants  and  Catholics  are  alike  admit- 
ted. There  are  but  two  conditions  of  admittance,— 
that  the  applicants  be  homeless  and  of  good  charac- 


350  INTRODUCTION. 

ter.  This  is  the  only  Refuge  which  makes  character 
a  condition ;  and  it  is  found  that  in  spite  of  all  pre- 
cautions, much  harm  arises  in  the  other  Refuges  to 
the  young  and  innocent,  from  the  bad  language  and 
evil  example  of  the  degraded  class  with  whom  they 
are  brought  in  contact. 

Each  evening  (and  on  Sundays  more  fully)  simple 
instructions  on  the  Catechism  are  given  by  one  of 
the  Sisters  ;  but  this  the  Protestants  do  not  attend  ; 
they  frequently  ask  leave  to  be  present,  but  it  is  not 
permitted  (without  the  special  permission  of  one  of 
the  clergy,)  as  the  instructions  on  the  practise  of  our 
faith  would  be  to  them  comparatively  useless  and 
unmeaning. 

The  temporary  shelter  and  food  which  is  given  in 
Providence  Row  is  not  the  only,  perhaps  often  not 
the  greatest,  benefit  bestowed  upon  the  poor  forlorn 
inmates.  They  find  advice,  sympathy,  and  help 
from  the  kind  Sisters;  and  the  very  telling  their 
troubles  to  one  who  is  there  to  serve  and  tend  them, 
not  for  any  earthly  reward,  but  from  Christian  love 
and  pity,  must  be  a  rest  to  their  weary  hearts,  a  com- 
fort in  their  sore  want  and  distress.  It  is  touching  to 
see  their  eager  desire  to  be  allowed  to  help  the  Sister 
in  the  cleaning,  cooking,  etc.,  and  the  half-ashamed 
thankfulness  with  which  they  watch  her  busied  in 
their  service. 

One  of  the  Nuns  sleeps  every  night  in  the  Refuge, 
and  no  unruly  sound,  no  whisper  of  murmur  or  dis- 
respect, ever  rises  against  her  gentle  sway.  Nay 
even  more,  when  she  has  the  sad  task  of  selecting 


INTRODUCTION.  351 

among  the  waiting  crowd  the  number  who  may  enter, 
choosing  generally  those  with  children  and  those 
who  have  not  applied  before,  the  rest  submit  with- 
out a  murmur.  Though  the  little  ones  are  hardly 
counted,  but  creep  in  by  their  mothers'  sides,  there 
are  still  many — sometimes  thirty  or  forty  nightly — 
turned  away  for  want  of  space.  They  have  had  a 
glimpse  of  warmth  and  light,  and  then  it  is  the  cruel 
office  of  the  kind  Nun  to  bar  the  door  against  them  ; 
but  no  angry  word,  no  remonstrance,  meets  her  sor- 
rowful refusal ;  they  turn  once  more  to  their  weary 
wanderings  in  the  dark,  bleak  streets.  And  so  will 
many  have  to  do,  night  after  night,  till  the  Refuge  is 
enlarged.  The  present  space  will  hold  no  more  beds, 
but  to  build  an  additional  dormitory  is  the  earnest 
desire  and  intention  of  Dr.  Gilbert. 

No  salaries  are  received  by  any  who  have  charge  of 
the  Refuge.  Among  the  many  causes  for  gratitude 
we  have  to  our  good  Religious,  surely  it  is  not  one  of 
the  least,  that  what  we  can  spare  in  the  cause  of 
charity  goes  solely  and  directly  to  its  object;  the 
more  difficult  and  more  perfect  share  of  the  good 
work  being  taken  by  them  out  of  love  to  God  and 
His  poor. 

The  Refuge  is  open  from  the  month  of  October  to 
April. 

It  is  placed  under  the  special  patronage  of  Our 
Blessed  Lady,  and  Blessed  Benedict  Labre". 

May  the  Mother  who  wandered  homeless  through 
inhospitable  Betlehelm,  and  the  Saint  who  was  a  beg- 
gar and  an  outcast  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  watch 


352  INTRODUCTION. 

over  tliis  Refuge  for  the  poor  and  desolate,  and  ob- 
tain from  the  charity  of  the  faithful  the  aid  which 
it  so  sorely  needs. 

I  may  add,  that  donations  for  the  Refuge  will  be 
thankfully  received  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gilbert,  22 
Finsbury  Circus,  or  by  the  Rev.  Mother,  at  the  Con- 
vent, 14  Finsbury  Square,  E.  C. 

We  all  meditate  long  and  often  on  the  many  kinds 
of  sufferings  borne  for  us  by  our  blessed  Redeemer ; 
but  perhaps,  if  we  consider  a  moment,  we  shall  most 
of  us  confess,  that  the  one  that  we  think  of  least 
often,  the  one  we  compassionate  least  of  all,  is  the 
only  one  of  which  he  deigned  to  tell  us  himself  and 
for  which  he  himself  appealed  to  our  pity  in  the  Divine 
complaint.  "  The  foxes  have  holes,  and  the  birds  of 
the  air  have  nests,  but  the  Son  of  Man  has  not  where 

to  lay  his  head." 

A.A.P. 

May,  1862. 


A  CHAPLET  OF  VERSES. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD. 

I. 

To  fight  the  battle  of  the  Cross,  Christ's  chosen  ones 

are  sent, — 

Good  soldiers  and  great  victors, — a  noble  armament. 
They  use  no  earthly  weapon,  they  know  not  spear  or 

sword, 

Yet  right   and  true  and  valiant  is  the  army  of  the 

Lord. 

n. 
Fear  them,  ye  mighty  ones  of  earth ;  fear  them,  ye 

demon  foes ; 
Slay  them  and  think  to  conquer,  but  the  ranks  will 

always  close : 
In  vain  do  Earth  and  Hell  unite  their  power  and 

skill  to  try, 
They  fight  better  for  their  wounds,  and  they  conquer 

when  they  die. 

III. 

The  soul  of  every  sinner  is  the  victory  they  would 

gain; 
They  would  bind  each  rebel  heart  in  their  Master's 

golden  chain : 

353 


354        THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD. 

Faith  is  the  shield  they  carry,  and  the  two-edged 

sword  they  bear, 
Is  God's  strongest,  mightiest  weapon,  and  they  call 

it  Love  and  Prayer. 

IV. 

Where  the  savage  hordes  are  dwelling  by  the  Ganges' 

sacred  tide, 
Through  the  trackless  Indian  forests,  St.  Francis  is 

their  guide  ; 
Where  crime  and  sin  are  raging,  to  conquer  they  are 

gone ;— 
They  do  conquer   as  they  go,  for  St.  Philip  leads 

them  on. 

V. 

They  are  come  where  all  are  kneeling  at  the  shrines 

of  wealth  and  pride, 
And  an  old  and  martyred  Bishop  is  their  comrade 

and  their  guide : 

To  tell  the  toil-worn  negro  of  freedom  and  repose, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic's   bosom   they  are  called  by 

sweet  St.  Rose. 

VI. 

They  are  gone  where  Love  is  frozen,  and  Faith  grown 

calm  and  cold, 
Where  the  world  is  all  triumphant,  and  the  sheep 

have  left  the  fold, 
Where  His  children  scorn  His  blessings,  and  His 

sacred  Shrines  despise, 
And  the  beacon  of  the  warriors  is  the  light  in  Mary's 

eyes. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD.        355 

VII. 

The  bugle  for  their  battle  is  the  matin  bell  for  prater ; 
And  for  their  noble  standard  Christ's  holy  cross  they 

bear ; 
His  sacred  name  their  war-cry,  'tis   in  vain  what  ye 

can  do, 
They  must  conquer,  for  your  Angels  are  leaguing 

with  them  too. 

VIII. 

Would  you  know,  O  World,  these  warriors  ?     Go 

where  the  poor,  the  old, 
Ask  for  pardon  and  for  heaven,  and  you  offer  food 

and  gold ; 
With  healing  and  with  comfort,  with  words  of  peace 

and  prayer, 
Bearing  His  greatest  gift  to  man, — Christ's  chosen 

priests  are  there. 

IX. 

Where  sin  and  crime  are  dwelling,  hid  from  the  light 

of  day, 
And  life  and  hope  are  fading  at  Death's  cold  touch 

away, 
Where  dying  eyes  in  horror  see  the  long-forgotten 

past, 
Christ's  servants  claim  the  sinner,  and  gain  his  soul 

at  last. 

x. 

Where  the  rich  and  proud  and  mighty  God's  message 

would  defy, 
In  warning  and  reproof  His  anointed  ones  stand  by ; 


356  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD. 

Bright  are  the  crowns  of  glory  God  keepeth  for  His 

own, 
Their  life  one  sigh  for  heaven,  and  their  aim  His  will 

alone. 

XI. 

And  see  sweet  Mercy's  sister,  where  the  poor  and 

wretched  dwell, 

In  gentle  accents  telling  of  Him  she  loves  so  well ; 
Training  young  hearts  to  serve  their  Lord,  and  place 

their  hope  in  Heaven, 
Bidding  her  erring  sisters  love  much  and  be  forgiven. 

xii. 

And  where,  in  cloistered  silence  dim  the  Brides  of 

Jesus  dwell, 

Where  purest  incense  rises  up  from  every  lowly  cell, 
They  plead  not  vainly, — they  have  chosen  and  gained 

the  better  part, 
And  given  their  gentle   life  away  to  Him  who  has 

their  heart. 

XIII. 

And  some  there  are  among  us — the  path  which  they 

have  trod 

Of  sin  and  pain  and  anguish  has  led  at  last  to  God : 
They  plead,  and  Christ  will  hear  them,  that  the  poor 

slaves  who  pine 
In  the  bleak    dungeon  they  have  left,  may  see  His 

truth  divine. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD.  35? 

XIV. 

O,  who  can  tell  how  many  hearts  are  altars  to  His 

praise, 
From  which  the  silent  prayer  ascends  through  patient 

nights  and  days, 

The  sacrifice  is  offered  still  in  secret  and  alone, 
O  World,  ye  do  not  know  them,  but  He  can  help  His 

own. 

XV. 

They  are  with  us,  His  true  soldiers,  they  come  in 

power  and  might ; 
Glorious  the  crown  which  they  shall  gain  after  the 

heavenly  fight ; 
And  you,  perchance,  who  scoff,  may  yet  their  rest 

and  glory  share, 
As  the  rich  spoil  of  their  battle  and  the  captives  of 

their  prayer. 

XVI. 

O,  who  shall  tell  the  wonder  of  that  great  day  of  rest, 
When  even  in  this  place  of  strife  His  soldiers  are  so 

blest : 
O  World,  O  Earth,  why  strive  ye  ?  join  the  low  chant 

they  sing,— 
O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  !     O  Death,  where  is 

thy  sting!" 


358  THE  STAR  OF  THE  SEA. 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  SEA. 

How  many  a  mighty  ship 

The  stormy  waves  o'erwhelm ; 
Yet  our  frail  bark  floats  on, 

Our  Angel  holds  the  helm  : 
Dark  storms  are  gathering  round, 

And  dangerous  winds  arise, 
Yet  see !  one  trembling  star 

Is  shining  in  the  skies  ; — 
And  we  are  safe  who  trust  in  thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea  ! 


A  long  and  weary  voyage 

Have  we  to  reach  our  home, 
And  dark  and  sunken  rocks 

Are  hid  in  silver  foam ; 
Each  moment  we  may  sink, 

But  steadily  we  sail, 
Our  winged  Pilot  smiles, 

And  says  we  shall  not  fail : — 
And  so  we  kneel  and  call  on  thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea! 

Yes,  for  those  shining  rays 
Shall  beam  upon  the  main, 

Shall  guide  us  safely  on, 

Through  fear  and  doubt  and  pain 


THE  SACRED  HEART.  359 

And  see — the  stormy  wind 

Our  little  sail  has  caught, 
The  tempest  others  fear 

Shall  drive  us  into  port : — 
Through  Life's  dark  voyage  we  trust  in  thee 
Star  of  the  Sea ! 

The  shore  now  looms  in  sight, 

The  far-off  golden  strand, 
Yet  many  a  freight  is  wrecked 

And  lost  in  sight  of  land ; 
Then  guide  us  safely  home, 

Through  that  last  hour  of  strife, 

And  welcome  us  to  land, 

From  the  long  voyage  of  life : — 

In  death  and  life  we  call  on  thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea ! 


THE  SACRED  HEART. 

WHAT  wouldst  thou  have,  O  soul, 

Thou  weary  soul  ? 
Lo !  I  have  sought  for  rest 
On  the  earth's  heaving  breast, 

From  pole  to  pole. 
Sleep — I  had  been  with  her, 

But  she  gave  dreams  ; 
Death — nay,  the  rest  he  gives 

Rest  only  seems. 


360  THE  SACRED  HEART. 

Fair  nature  knows  it  not — 

The  grass  is  growing ; 
The  blue  air  knows  it  not — 

The  winds  are  blowing : 
Not  in  the  changing  sky, 

The  stormy  sea, 
Yet  somewhere  in  God's  wide  world 

Rest  there  must  be. 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Place  all  thy  care, 
And  learn,  O  weary  soul, 

Thy  rest  is  there. 

What  wouldst  thou,  trembling  soul  ? 

Strength  for  the  strife, — 
Strength  for  this  fiery  war 

That  we  call  Life. 
Fears  gather  thickly  round ; 

Shadowy  foes, 
Like  unto  arme'd  men, 

Around  me  close. 
What  am  I,  frail  and  poor, 

When  griefs  arise  ? 
No  help  from  the  weak  earth, 

Or  the  cold  skies. 
Lo !  I  can  find  no  guards, 

No  weapons  borrow  ; 
Shrinking,  alone  I  stand, 

With  mighty  sorrow. 
Courage,  thou  trembling  soul, 

Grief  thou  must  bear, 


THE  SACRED  HEART.  361 

Yet  thou  canst  find  a  strength 

Will  match  despair ; 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart — 

Seek  for  it  there. 


What  wouldst  thou  have,  sad  soul, 

Oppressed  with  grief? — 
Comfort :  I  seek  in  vain, 

Nor  find  relief. 
Nature,  all  pitiless, 

Smiles  on  my  pain  ; 
I  ask  my  fellow-men, 

They  give  disdain. 
I  asked  the  babbling  streams, 

But  they  flowed  on ; 
I  asked  the  wise  and  good, 

But  they  gave  none. 
Though  I  have  asked  the  stars, 

Coldly  they  shine. 
They  are  too  bright  to  know 

Grief  such  as  mine. 
I  asked  for  comfort  still, 

And  I  found  tears, 
And  I  have  sought  in  vain 

Long,  weary  years. 
Listen,  thou  mournful  soul, 

Thy  pain  shall  cease  ; 
Deep  in  His  sacred  Heart 

Dwells  joy  and  peace, 


362  THE  SACRED  HEART. 

Yes,  in  that  Heart  divine 

The  Angels  bright 
Find,  through  eternal  years, 

Still  new  delight. 
From  thence  his  constancy 

The  martyr  drew, 
And  there  the  virgin  band 

Their  refuge  knew. 
There,  racked  by  pain  without, 

And  dread  within, 
How  many  souls  have  found 

Heaven's  bliss  begin. 
Then  leave  thy  vain  attempts 

To  seek  for  peace  ; 
The  world  can  never  give 

One  soul  release  : 
But  in  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Securely  dwell, 
No  pain  can  harm  thee,  hid 

In  that  sweet  cell. 
Then  fly,  O  coward  soul, 

Delay  no  more : 
What  words  can  speak  the  joy 

For  thee  in  store  ? 
What  smiles  of  earth  can  tell 

Of  peace  like  thine  ? 
Silence  and  tears  are  best 

For  things  divine. 


THE  NAMES  OF  OUR  LADY.        363 


THE  NAMES  OF  OUR  LADY. 

THROUGH  the  wide  world  thy  children  raise 

Their  prayers,  and  still  we  see 
Calm  are  the  nights  and  bright  the  days 

Of  those  who  trust  in  thee. 

Around  thy  starry  crown  are  wreathed 

So  many  names  divine  : 
Which  is  the  dearest  to  my  heart, 

And  the  most  worthy  thine  ? 

Star  of  the  sea :  we  kneel  and  pray 
When  tempests  raise  their  voice  ; 

Star  of  the  Sea !  the  haven  reached, 
We  call  thee  and  rejoice. 

Help  of  the  Christian  :  in  our  need 

Thy  mighty  aid  we  claim  ; 
If  we  are  faint  and  weary,  then 

We  trust  in  that  dear  name. 

Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary  : 

What  name  can  be  so  sweet 
As  what  we  call  thee  when  we  place 
Our  chaplets  at  thy  feet. 

Bright  Queen  of  Heaven  :  when  we  are  sad, 

Best  solace  of  our  pains  ; — 
It  tells  us,  though  on  earth  we  toil, 

Our  Mother  lives  and  reigns. 


364:  THE  NAMES  OF  OUR  LADY. 

Our  Lady  of  Mount  Carmel :  thus 
Sometimes  thy  name  is  known  ; 

It  tells  us  of  the  badge  we  wear, 
To  live  and  die  thine  own. 

Our  Lady  dear  of  Victories  : 

We  see  our  faith  oppressed, 
And,  praying  for  our  erring  land, 

We  love  that  name  the  best. 

Refuge  of  Sinners  :  many  a  soul, 

By  guilt  cast  down,  and  sin, 
Has  learned  through  this  dear  name  of  thine 

Pardon  and  peace  to  win. 

Health  of  the  Sick :  when  anxious  hearts 

Watch  by  the  sufferer's  bed, 
On  this  sweet  name  of  thine  they  lean, 

Consoled  and  comforted. 

Mother  of  Sorrows :  many  a  heart 

Half  broken  by  despair 
Has  laid  its  burden  by  the  cross 

And  found  a  mother  there. 

Queen  of  all  Saints  :  the  Church  appeals 

For  her  loved  dead  to  thee  ; 
She  knows  they  wait  in  patient  pain 

A  bright  eternity. 

fair  Queen  of  Virgins :  thy  pure  band, 

The  lilies  round  thy  throne, 
Love  the  dear  title  which  they  bear 

Most  that  it  is  thine  own. 


A  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS.  365 

True  Queen  of  Martyrs  :  if  we  shrink 

From  want,  or  pain,  or  woe, 
We  think  of  the  sharp  sword  that  pierced 

Thy  heart,  and  call  thee  so. 

Mary :  the  dearest  name  of  all, 

The  holiest  and  the  best ; 
The  first  low  word  that  Jesus  lisped 

Laid  on  His  mother's  breast. 

Mary,  the  name  that  Gabriel  spoke, 

The  name  that  conquers  hell : 
Mary,  the  name  that  through  high  heaven 

The  angels  love  so  well. 

Mary, — our  comfort  and  our  hope, — 

O  may  that  word  be  given 
To  be  the  last  we  sigh  on  earth, — 

The  first  we  breathe  in  heaven. 


A  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS. 

DEAR,  set  the  casement  open, 
The  evening  breezes  blow 

Sweet  perfumes  from  the  flowers 
I  cannot  see  below. 

I  can  but  catch  the  waving 
Of  chestnut  boughs  that  pass, 

Their  shadow  must  have  covered 
The  sun-dial  on  the  grass. 


366  A  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS. 

So  go  and  bring  the  flowers 
I  love  best  to  my  room, 

My  failing  strength  no  longer 
Can  bear  me  where  they  bloom. 

You  know  I  used  to  love  them, 
But  ah !  they  come  too  late, — 

For  see,  my  hands  are  trembling 
Beneath  their  dewy  weight. 

So  I  will  watch  you  weaving 
A  chaplet  for  me,  dear, 

Of  all  my  favorite  flowers, 
As  I  could  do  last  year. 

First,  take  those  crimson  roses, — 
How  red  their  petals  glow  ! 

Red  as  the  blood  of  Jesus, 
Which  heals  our  sin  and  woe. 

See  in  each  heart  of  crimson 
A  deeper  crimson  shine : 

So  in  the  foldings  of  our  hearts 
Should  glow  a  love  divine. 

Next  place  those  tender  violets, 
Look  how  they  still  regret 

The  cell  where  they  were  hidden 
The  tears  are  on  them  yet. 

How  many  souls — His  loved  ones — 
Dwell  lonely  and  apart, 

Hiding  from  all  but  One  above 
The  fragrance  of  their  heart. 


A  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS.  3(5? 

Then  take  that  virgin  lily, 

How  holily  she  stands  ! 
You  know  the  gentle  angels 

Bear  lilies  in  their  hands. 

Yet  crowned  with  purer  radiance 

And  deeper  love  they  claim, 
Because  their  queen-like  whiteness 

Is  linked  with  Mary's  name. 

And  now  this  spray  of  ivy  : 

You  know  its  gradual  clasp 
Uproots  strong  trees,  and  towers 

Fall  crumbling  in  its  grasp. 

So  God's  dear  grace  around  us 

With  secret  patience  clings, 
And  slow,  sure  power,  that  loosens 

Strong  holds  on  human  things. 

Then  heliotrope,  that  turneth 

Towards  her  lord  the  sun, — 
Would  that  our  thoughts  as  fondly 

Sought  our  belove'd  One. 

Nay,  if  that  branch  be  fading, 

Cast  not  one  blossom  by, 
Its  little  task  is  ended 

And  it  does  well  to  die. 

And  let  some  field  flowers  even 

Be  wreathed  among  the  rest, 
I  think  the  infant  Jesus 

Would  love  such  ones  the  best. 


368  A  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS. 

These  flowers  are  all  too  brilliant, 
So  place  calm  heart's-ease  there, 

God's  last  and  sacred  treasure 
For  all  who  wait  and  bear. 

Then  lemon-leaves,  whose  sweetness 
Grows  sweeter  than  before 

When  bruised,  and  crushed,  and  broken 
— Hearts  need  that  lesson  more. 

Yet  stay, — one  crowning  glory, 

All  His,  and  yet  all  ours ; 
The  dearest,  tenderest  thought  of  all, 

Is  still  the  Passion-flower's. 

So  take  it  now, — nay,  heed  not 

My  tears  that  on  it  fall ; 
I  thank  Him  for  the  flowers, 

As  I  can  do  for  all. 

And  place  it  on  the  altar, 

Where  oft  in  days  long  flown, 

I  knelt  by  His  dear  Mother, 
And  knew  she  was  rny  own. 

The  bells  ring  out  her  praises, 
The  evening  shades  grow  dim ; 

Go  there  and  say  a  prayer  for  me, 
And  sing  Our  Lady's  hymn. 

While  I  lay  here,  and  ask  her  help 
In  that  last,  longed-for  day — 

When  the  Beloved  of  my  heart 
Will  call  my  soul  away. 


KYRIE  ELEISON.  369 

KYRIE  ELEISON. 

IN  joy,  in  pain,  in  sorrow, 

Father,  Thy  hand  we  see  ; 
But  some  among  Thy  children 

Deny  this  faith  and  Thee. 
They  will  not  ask  Thy  mercy, 

But  we  kneel  for  them  in  prayer ; 
Are  they  not  still  Thy  children  ? 

Pity,  O  God !  and  spare. 
Thy  peace,  O  Lord,  has  never 

On  their  desolate  pathway  shone, 
Darkness  is  all  around  them 

Kyrie  Eleison ! 

For  them  the  starry  heavens 

No  hymn  of  worship  raise  ; 
For  them,  earth's  innocent  flowers 

Breathe  not  Thy  silent  praise  ; 
In  heaven  they  know  no  Saviour, 

No  Father,  and  no  Friend, 
And  life  is  all  they  hope  for, 

And  Death  they  call  the  end  ; 
Their  eyes,  O  Lord  !  are  blinded 

To  the  glories  of  the  sun, 
To  the  shining  of  the  sea-star — 

Kyrie  Eleison  ! 

By  the  love  Thy  saints  have  shown  Thee, 

And  the  sorrows  they  have  borne, 
Leave  not  these  erring  creatures 

To  wander  thus  forlorn. 
24 


370  THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

By  Thy  tender  name  of  Saviour,— 

The  name  they  have  denied ; 
By  Thy  bitter  death  and  passion, 

And  the  Cross  which  they  deride  ; 
By  the  anguish  Thou  hast  suffered, 

And  the  glory  Thou  hast  won ; 
By  Thy  love  and  by  Thy  pity — 

Christe  Eleison ! 


Pray  for  them,  glorious  seraphs, 

And  ye,  bright  angel  band, 
Who  chant  His  praises  ever, 

And  in  His  presence  stand ; 
And  thou,  O  gentle  Mother, 

Queen  of  the  starry  sky  ; 
Ye  Saints  whose  toils  are  over, 

Join  your  voices  to  our  cry, — 
In  Thy  terror  and  Thy  mercy, 

Call  them  ere  life  is  done, 
For  His  sake  who  died  to  save  them, 

Kyrie  Eleison ! 


THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

How  pure,  and  frail,  and  white, 
The  snowdrops  shine  ! 

Gather  a  garland  bright 
For  Mary's  shrine. 


THE  ANNUNCIATION.  371 

For,  born  of  winter  snows, 

These  fragile  flowers 
Are  gifts  to  our  fair  Queen 

From  Spring's  first  hours. 

For  on  this  blessed  day 

She  knelt  at  prayer ; 
When,  lo !  before  her  shone 

An  Angel  fair. 

"  Hail  Mary ! "  thus  he  cried, 

With  reverent  fear : 
She,  with  sweet  wondering  eyes, 

Marvelled  to  hear. 

Be  still,  ye  clouds  of  Heaven ! 

Be  silent,  Earth ! 
And  hear  an  Angel  tell 

Of  Jesus'  birth. 

While  she,  whom  Gabriel  hails 

As  full  of  grace, 
Listens  with  humble  faith 

In  her  sweet  face. 

Be  still,  Pride,  War,  and  Pomp, 

Vain  Hopes,  vain  Fears, 
For  now  an  Angel  speaks, 

And  Mary  hears. 

"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  lo,  it  rings 

Through  ages  on ; 
"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  it  shall  sound 

Till  time  is  done. 


372  AN  APPEAL. 


"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  infant  lips 

Lisp  it  to-day ; 
"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  with  faint  smile 

The  dying  say. 

"  Hail,  Mary  I "  many  a  heart 

Broken  with  grief 
In  that  angelic  prayer 

Has  found  relief. 

And  many  a  half  lost  soul, 

When  turned  at  bay, 
With  those  triumphant  words 

Has  won  the  day. 

"  Hail,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven !  " 

Let  us  repeat, 
And  place  our  snowdrop  wreath 

Here  at  her  feet. 


AN  APPEAL. 

"THE     IRISH    CHURCH    MISSION    FOR     CONVERTING 
THE     CATHOLICS." 

SPARE  her,  O  cruel  England ! 

Thy  Sister  lieth  low  ; 
Chained  and  oppressed  she  lieth, 

Spare  her  that  cruel  blow. 


AN  APPEAL.  373 

We  ask  not  for  the  freedom 

Heaven  has  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
Nor  bid  thee  share  with  Ireland 

The  empire  of  the  sea  ; 
Her  children  ask  no  shelter, — 

Leave  them  the  stormy  sky ; 
They  ask  not  for  thy  harvests 

For  they  know  how  to  die : 
Deny  them,  if  it  please  thee, 

A  grave  beneath  the  sod : — 
But  we  do  cry,  O  England, 

Leave  them  their  faith  in  God  ! 

Take,  if  thou  wilt,  the  earnings 

Of  the  poor  peasant's  toil, 
Take  all  the  scanty  produce 

That  grows  on  Irish  soil, 
To  pay  the  alien  preachers 

Whom  Ireland  will  not  hear, 
To  pay  the  scoffers  at  a  Creed 

Which  Irish  hearts  hold  dear  : 
But  leave  them,  cruel  England, 

The  gift  their  God  has  given, 
Leave  them  their  ancient  worship, 

Leave  them  their  faith  in  Heaven. 

You  come  and  offer  Learning, — 

A  mighty  gift,  'tis  true ; 
Perchance  the  greatest  blessing 

That  now  is  known  to  you. 


374  AN  APPEAL. 

But  not  to  see  the  wonders 

Sages  of  old  beheld 
Can  they  peril  a  priceless  treasure, 

The  Faith  their  Fathers  held ; 
For  in  learning  and  in  science 

They  may  forget  to  pray, — 
God  will  not  ask  for  knowledge 

On  the  great  judgment  day. 


When,  in  their  wretched  cabins, 

Racked  by  the  fever  pain, 
And  the  weak  cries  of  their  children 

Who  ask  for  food  in  vain  ; 
When  starving,  naked,  helpless, 

From  the  shed  that  keeps  them  warm 
Man  has  driven  them  forth  to  perish, 

In  a  less  cruel  storm  ; — 
Then,  then,  we  plead  for  mercy, 

Then,  Sister,  hear  our  ciy ! 

For  all  we  ask,  O  England, 

Is — leave  them  there  to  die  ! 
Cursed  is  the  food  and  raiment 

For  which  a  soul  is  sold  ; 
Tempt  not  another  Judas 

To  barter  God  for  gold. 
You  offer  food  and  shelter 

If  they  their  faith  deny: — 
What  do  you  gain,  O  England, 

By  such  a  shallow  lie  ?  .... 


AN  APPEAL.  37-5 

"We  will  not  judge  the  tempted, — 

May  God  blot  out  their  shame, — 
He  sees  the  misery  round  them, 

He  knows  man's  feeble  frame ; 
His  pity  still  may  save  them, 

In  His  strength  they  must  trust 
Who  calls  us  all  His  children, 

Yet  knows  we  are  but  dust. 


Then  leave  them  the  kind  tending 

Which  helped  their  childish  years ; 
Leave  them  the  gracious  comfort 

Which  dries  the  mourner's  tears ; 
Leave  them  to  that  great  mother 

In  whose  bosom  they  were  born  ; 
Leave  them  the  holy  mysteries 

That  comfort  the  forlorn  : 
And,  amid  all  their  trials, 

Let  the  Great  Gift  abide, 
Which  you,  O  prosperous  England, 

Have  dared  to  cast  aside. 

Leave  them  the  pitying  Angels 

And  Mary's  gentle  aid, 
For  which  earth's  dearest  treasures 

Were  not  too  dearty  paid. 
Take  back  your  bribes,  then,  England, 

Your  gold  is  black  and  dim, 
And  if  God  sends  plague  and  famine, 

They  can  die  and  go  to  Him. 


376  THE  JUBILEE  QF  1850. 


THE  JUBILEE  OF  1850. 

[The  titles  of  the  "  Island  of  Saints  "  and  the  "  Dower  of 
our  Lady,"  though  more  frequently  applied  to  Ireland,  were 
often  given  to  England  in  former  times.] 

BLESS  God,  ye  happy  Lands, 
For  your  more  favored  lot : 
Our  England  dwells  apart, 

Yet  O  forget  her  not. 
While,  with  united  joy, 

This  day  you  all  adore, 
Remember  what  she  was, 

Though  her  voice  is  heard  no  more. 
Pray  for  our  desolate  land, 
Left  in  her  pride  and  power : — 
She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower. 

Look  on  her  ruined  Altars ; 

HE  dwelleth  there  no  more : 
Think  what  her  empty  churches 

Have  been  in  times  of  yore  ; 
She  knows  the  names  no  longer 

Of  her  own  sainted  dead, 
Denies  the  faith  they  held, 

And  the  cause  for  which  they  bled. 
Then  pray  for  our  desolate  land, 
Left  in  her  pride  and  power : — 
She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower  I 


THE  JUBILEE  OF  1850. 

Pray  that  her  vast  Cathedrals, 

Deserted,  empty,  bare, 
May  once  more  echo  accents 

Of  Love,  and  Faith,  and  Prayer ; 
That  the  holy  sign  may  bless  us, 
On  wood,  and  field,  and  plain, 
And  Jesus,  Mary,  Joseph, 
May  dwell  with  us  again. 

Pray,  ye  more  faithful  nations, 
In  this  most  happy  hour : — 
She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower. 

Beg  of  our  Lord  to  give  her 

The  gift  she  cast  aside, 
And  in  His  mercy  pardon 

Her  faithlessness  and  pride  : 
Pray  to  her  Saints,  who  worship 

Before  God's  mercy  Throne  ; 
Look  where  our  Queen  is  dwelling, 
Ask  her  to  claim  her  own, 
To  give  her  the  proud  titles 
Lost  in  an  evil  hour  : — 
She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower. 


378  CHRISTMAS  FLOWERS. 


CHRISTMAS  FLOWERS. 

THE  Earth  is  so  bleak  and  deserted, 

So  cold  the  winds  blow, 
That  no  bud  or  no  blossom  will  venture 

To  peep  from  below : 
But,  longing  for  spring  time,  they  nestle, 

Deep  under  the  snow. 

O,  in  May  how  we  honored  Our  Lady, 

Her  own  month  of  flowers  ! 
How  happy  we  were  with  our  garlands 

Through  all  the  spring  hours  ! 
All  her  shrines,  in  the  church  or  the  wayside, 

Were  made  into  bowers. 

And  in  August — her  glorious  Assumption  ; 

What  feast  was  so  bright ! 
What  clusters  of  virginal  lilies, 

So  pure  and  so  white  ! 
Why,  the  incense  could  scarce  overpower 

Their  perfume  that  night. 

And  through  her  dear  feasts  of  October 

The  roses  bloomed  still ; 
Our  baskets  were  laden  with  flowers, 

Her  vases  to  fill : 
Oleanders,  geraniums,  and  myrtles, 

We  chose  at  our  will. 


CHRISTMAS  FLOWERS.  379 

And  we  know  when  the  Purification, 

Her  first  feast,  comes  round, 
The  early  spring  flowers,  to  greet  it, 

Just  opening  are  found ; 
And  pure,  white,  and  spotless,  the  snowdrop 

Will  pierce  the  dark  ground. 

And  now,  in  this  dreary  December, 

Our  glad  hearts  are  fain 
To  see  if  Earth  comes  not  to  help  us ; 

We  seek  all  in  vain  : 
Not  the  tiniest  blossom  is  coming 

Till  Spring  breathes  again. 

And  the  bright  feast  of  Christmas  is  dawning, 

And  Mary  is  blest ; 
For  now  she  will  give  us  her  Jesus, 

Our  dearest,  our  best, 
And  see  where  she  stands,  the  Maid  Mother, 

Her  Babe  on  her  breast ! 

And  not  one  poor  garland  to  give  her, 

And  yet  now,  behold, 
How  the  Kings  bring  their  gifts, — myrrh,  and  incense, 

And  bars  of  pure  gold : 
And  the  Shepherds  have  brought  for  the  Baby 

Some  lambs  from  their  folds. 

He  stretches  His  tiny  hands  towards  us, 

He  brings  us  all  grace  ; 
And  look  at  His  Mother  who  holds  Him, — 

The  smile  on  her  face 


380  A  DESIRE.' 

Says  they  welcome  the  humhlest  gifts 
In  the  manger  we  place. 

Where  love  takes,  let  love  give ;  and  so  doubt  not : 

Love  counts  but  the  will, 
And  the  heart  has  its  flowers  of  devotion 

No  winter  can  chill ; 
They  who  cared  for  "  good-will  "  the  first  Christmas 

Will  care  for  it  still. 

In  the  Chaplet  on  Jesus  and  Mary, 

From  our  hearts  let  us  call, 
At  each  Ave  Maria  we  whisper 

A  rosebud  shall  fall, 
And  at  each  Gloria  Patri  a  lily, 

The  crown  of  them  all ! 


A  DESIRE. 

O,  TO  have  dwelt  in  Bethlehem 

When  the  star  of  the  Lord  shone  bright ! 
To  have  sheltered  the  holy  wanderers 

On  that  blessed  Christmas  night ; 
To  have  kissed  the  tender  wayworn  feet 

Of  the  Mother  undefiled, 
And,  with  reverent  wonder  and  deep  delight, 

To  have  tended  the  Holy  Child  ! 

Hush !  such  a  glory  was  not  for  thee ; 

But  that  care  may  still  be  thine ; 
For  are  there  not  little  ones  still  to  aid 

For  the  sake  of  the  Child  divine  ? 


A  DESIRE.  381 

Are  there  no  wandering  Pilgrims  now, 
To  thy  heart  and  thy  home  to  take  ? 

And  are  there  no  mothers  whose  weary  hearts 
You  can  comfort  for  Mary's  sake  ? 

O  to  have  knelt  at  Jesus'  feet, 

And  to  have  learnt  his  heavenly  lore  ! 
To  have  listened  the  gentle  lessons  He  taught 

On  mountain,  and  sea,  and  shore  ! 
While  the  rich  and  the  mighty  knew  Him  not, 

To  have  meekly  done  His  will : — 
Hush !  for  the  worldly  reject  Him  yet, 

You  can  serve  and  love  Him  still. 
Time  cannot  silence  His  mighty  words, 

And  though  ages  have  fled  away, 
His  gentle  accents  of  love  divine 

Speak  to  your  soul  to-day. 

O  to  have  solaced  that  weeping  one 

Whom  the  righteous  dared  despise  ! 
To  have  tenderly  bound  up  her  scattered  hair 

And  have  dried  her  tearful  eyes  ! 
Hush  !  there  are  broken  hearts  to  soothe, 

And  penitent  tears  to  dry, 
While  Magdalen  prays  for  you  and  them, 

From  her  home  in  the  starry  sky. 

O  to  have  followed  the  mournful  way 

Of  those  faithful  few  forlorn ! 
And  grace,  beyond  even  an  angel's  hope, 

The  Cross  for  our  Lord  have  borne ! 


382  A  DESIRE. 

To  have  shared  in  his  tender  mother's  grief 

To  have  wept  at  Mary's  side, 
To  have  lived  as  a  child  in  her  home,  and  then 

In  her  loving  care  have  died  ! 

Hush  !  and  with  reverent  sorrow  still, 

Mary's  great  anguish  share  ; 
And  learn,  for  the  sake  of  her  Son  divine, 

Thy  cross,  like  His,  to  bear. 
The  sorrows  that  weigh  on  thy  soul  unite 

With  those  which  thy  Lord  has  borne, 
And  Mary  will  comfort  thy  dying  hour, 

Nor  leave  thy  soul  forlorn. 

O  to  have  seen  what  we  now  adore, 

And,  though  veiled  to  faithless  sight, 
To  have  known,  in  the  form  that  Jesus  wore, 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Light ! 
Hush  !  for  He  dwells  among  us  still, 

And  a  grace  can  yet  be  thine, 
Which  the  scoffer  and  doubter  can  never  know,- 

The  Presence  of  the  Divine. 
Jesus  is  with  his  children  yet, 

For  His  word  can  never  deceive ; 
Go  where  His  lowly  Altars  rise 

And  worship  and  believe. 


OUR  DAILY  BREAD.  383 


OUR  DAILY  BREAD. 

GIVE  us  our  daily  Bread, 

O  God,  the  bread  of  strength  ! 
For  we  have  learned  to  know 

How  weak  we  are  at  length. 
As  children  we  are  weak, 

As  children  must  be  fed  ; — 
Give  us  Thy  Grace,  O  Lord, 

To  be  our  daily  Bread, 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread, — 

The  bitter  bread  of  grief. 
We  sought  earth's  poisoned  feasts 

For  pleasure  and  relief  ; 
We  sought  her  deadly  fruits, 

But  now,  O  God,  instead, 
We  ask  Thy  healing  grief 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread 

To  cheer  our  fainting  soul ; 
The  feast  of  comfort,  Lord, 

And  peace,  to  make  us  whole : 
For  we  are  sick  of  tears, 

The  useless  tears  we  shed ; 
Now  give  us  comfort,  Lord, 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 


384:  THREEFOLD. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread, 

The  Bread  of  Angels,  Lord, 
By  us,  so  many  times, 

Broken,  betrayed,  adored: 
His  Body  and  His  Blood ; — 

The  feast  that  Jesus  spread  : 
Give  Him — our  life,  our  all — 

To  be  our  daily  Bread ! 


THREEFOLD. 

MOTHER  of  grace  and  mercy, 

Behold  how  burdens  three 
Weigh  down  my  weary  spirit, 

And  drive  me  here — to  Thee. 
Three  gifts  I  place  forever 

Before  thy  shrine : 
The  threefold  offering  of  my  love, 

Mary,  to  thine ! 

The  Past :  with  all  its  memories, 

Of  pain — that  stings  me  yet ; 
Of  sin — that  brought  repentance  ; 

Of  joy — that  brought  regret. 
That  which  has  been : — forever 

So  bitter-sweet — 
I  lay  in  humblest  offering 

Before  thy  feet. 


THREEFOLD.  335 

The  Present :  that  dark  shadow 

Through  which  we  toil  to-day ; 
The  slow  drops  of  the  chalice 

That  must  not  pass  away. 
Mother !  I  dare  not  struggle, 

Still  less  despair : 
I  place  my  Present  in  thy  hands, 

And  leave  it  there. 

The  Future  ?  holding  all  things 

Which  I  can  hope  or  fear, 
Brings  sin  and  pain,  it  may  be, 

Nearer  and  yet  more  near. 
Mother !  this  doubt  and  shrinking 

Will  not  depart, 
Unless  I  trust  my  Future 

To  thy  dear  Heart. 

Making  the  Past  my  lesson, 

Guiding  the  Present  right, 
Ruling  the  misty  Future, — 

Bless  them  and  me  to-night. 
What  may  be,  and  what  must  be, 

And  what  has  been, 
In  thy  dear  care  forever 

I  leave,  my  Queen  I 


386  CONFIDO  ET  CONQUIESCO. 

CONFIDO  ET  CONQUIESCO. 

"  Scit ;  potest ;  vult :  quid  est  quod  timeasmus  ?  " — S.  IGNATIUS. 

FBET  not,  poor  soul :  while  doubt  and  fear 

Disturb  thy  breast, 
The  pitying  angels,  who  can  see 
How  vain  thy  wild  regret  must  be, 

Say,  Trust  and  Rest. 

Plan  not,  nor  scheme, — but  calmly  wait ; 

His  choice  is  best. 
While  blind  and  erring  is  thy  sight, 
His  wisdom  sees  and  judges  right, 

So  Trust  and  Rest. 

Strive  not,  nor  struggle  :  thy  poor  might 

Can  never  wrest 

The  meanest  thing  to  serve  thy  will ; 
All  power  is  His  alone  :  Be  still, 

And  Trust  and  Rest. 

Desire  not :  self-love  is  strong 

Within  thy  breast ; 
And  yet  He  loves  thee  better  still, 
So  let  Him  do  His  loving  will, 

And  Trust  and  Rest. 

What  dost  thou  fear?     His  wisdom  reigns 

Supreme  confessed ; 
His  power  is  infinite  ;  His  love 
Thy  deepest,  fondest  dreams  above  ; 

So  Trust  and  Rest. 


ORA  PRO  ME.  387 


ORA  PRO  ME. 

AVE  MARIA  !  bright  and  pure, 
Hear,  O  hear  me  when  I  pray ! 

Pains  and  pleasures  try  the  pilgrim 
On  his  long  and  weary  way ; 

Fears  and  perils  are  around  me, 
Ora  pro  me. 

Mary,  see  my  heart  is  burdened, 
Take,  O  take  the  weight  away, 

Or  help  me,  that  I  may  not  murmur 
If  it  is  a  cross  you  lay 

On  my  weak  and  trembling  heart, — but 
Ora  pro  me. 

Mary,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven ! 

Teach,  O  teach  me  to  obey : 
Lead  me  on,  though  fierce  temptations 

Stand  and  meet  me  in  the  way  ; 
When  I  fall  and  faint,  my  mother, 
Ora  pro  me. 

Then  shall  I — if  thou,  O  Mary, 
Art  my  strong  support  and  stay 

Fear  nor  feel  the  threefold  danger 
Standing  forth  in  dread  array  ; 

Now  and  ever  shield  and  guard  me, 
Ora  pro  me. 


388  FISHERS  OF  MEN. 

When  my  eyes  are  slowly  closing, 
And  I  fade  from  earth  away, 

And  when  Death,  the  stern  destroyer, 
Claims  my  body  as  his  prey, — 

Claim  my  soul,  and  then,  sweet  Mary, 
Ora  pro  me. 


THE  CHURCH  IN  1849. 

O  MIGHTY  Mother,  hearken  !  for  thy  foes 
Gather  around  thee,  and  exulting  cry 
That  thine  old  strength  is  gone  and  thou  must  die, 

Pointing  with  fierce  rejoicing  to  thy  woes. 

And  is  it  so?     The  raging  whirlwind  blows 
No  stronger  now  than  it  has  done  of  yore  : 
Rebellion,  strife,  and  sin  have  been  before  ; 

The  same  companions  whom  thy  Master  chose. 

We  too  rejoice  :  we  know  thy  might  is  more 
When  to  the  world  thy  glory  seemeth  dim  ; 

Nor  can  Hell's  gates  prevail  to  conquer  Thee, 
Who  nearest  over  all  the  voice  of  Him 

Who  chose  thy  first  and  greatest  Prince  should  be 

A  fisher  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


FISHERS  OF   MEN. 

THE  boats  are  out,  and  the  storm  is  high ; 

We  kneel  on  the  shore  and  pray : 
The  Star  of  the  Sea  shines  still  in  the  sky, 

And  God  is  our  help  and  stay. 


FISHERS  OF  MEN.  389 

The  fishers  are  weak,  and  the  tide  is  strong, 
And  their  boat  seems  slight  and  frail ; 

But  St.  Peter  has  steered  it  for  them  so  long, 
It  would  weather  a  rougher  gale. 

St.  John  the  Belove'd  sails  with  them  too, 

And  his  loving  words  they  hear ; 
So  with  tender  trust  the  boat's  brave  crew 

Neither  doubt,  or  pause,  or  fear. 

He  who  sent  them  fishing  is  with  them  still, 

And  He  bids  them  cast  their  net ; 
And  He  has  the  power  their  boat  to  fill, 

So  we  know  He  will  do  it  yet. 

They  have  cast  their  nets  again  and  again, 

And  now  call  to  us  on  shore  ; 
If  our  feeble  prayers  seem  only  in  vain, 

We  will  pray  and  pray  the  more. 

Though  the  storm  is  loud,  and  our  voice  is  drowned 

By  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
We  know  that  more  terrible  tempest  found 

Their  Ruler,  O  Lord,  in  Thee ! 

See,  they  do  not  pause,  they  are  toiling  on, 

Yet  they  cast  a  loving  glance 
On  the  star  above,  and  ever  anon 

Look  up  through  the  blue  expanse. 

O  Mary,  listen  !  for  danger  is  nigh, 

And  we  know  thou  art  near  us  then ; 
For  thy  Son's  dear  servants  to  thee  we  cry, 

Sent  out  as  fishers  of  men, 


300  THE  OLD  YEAR'S  BLESSING. 

O,  watch, — as  of  old  thou  didst  watch  the  boat 

On  the  Galilean  lake, — 
And  grant  that  the  fishers  may  keep  afloat 

Till  the  nets,  o'ercharged,  shall  break. 


THE  OLD  YEAR'S  BLESSING. 

I  AM  fading  from  you, 
But  one  draweth  near, 

Called  the  Angel-guardian 
Of  the  coming  year. 

If  my  gifts  and  graces 

Coldly  you  forget, 
Let  the  New- Year's  Angel 

Bless  and  crown  them  yet. 

For  we  work  together  ; 

He  and  I  are  one  : 
Let  him  end  and  perfect 

All  I  leave  undone. 

I  brought  Good  Desires, 
Though  as  yet  but  seeds ; 

Let  the  New-Year  make  them 
Blossom  into  Deeds. 

I  brought  Joy  to  brighten 

Many  happy  days ; 
Let  the  New- Year's  Angel 

Turn  it  into  Praise. 


THE  OLD  YEAR'S  BLESSING.  39! 

If  I  gave  you  Sickness, 

If  I  brought  you  Care, 
Let  him  make  one  Patience, 

And  the  other  Prayer. 

Where  I  brought  you  Sorrow, 

Through  his  care,  at  length, 
It  may  rise  triumphant 

Into  future  Strength. 

If  I  brought  you  Plenty, 

All  wealth's  bounteous  charms, 

Shall  not  the  New  Angel 
Turn  them  into  Alms  ? 

I  gave  Health  and  Leisure, 

Skill  to  dream  and  plan  ; 
Let  him  make  them  nobler  ; — 

Work  for  God  and  Man. 

If  I  broke  your  Idols, 

Showed  you  they  were  dust, 
Let  him  turn  the  Knowledge 

Into  heavenly  Trust. 

If  I  brought  Temptation, 

Let  sin  die  away 
Into  boundless  Pity 

For  all  hearts  that  stray. 

If  your  list  of  Errors 

Dark  and  long  appears, 
Let  this  new-born  Monarch 

Melt  them  into  Tears. 


392  THE  EVENING  CHANT. 

May  you  hold  this  Angel 
Dearer  than  the  last, — 

So  I  bless  his  Future, 

While  he  crowns  my  Past. 


EVENING  CHANT. 

STREW  before  our  Lady's  Picture 
Roses, — flushing  like  the  sky 

Where  the  lingering  western  cloudlets 
Watch  the  daylight  die. 

Violets  steeped  in  dreamy  odors, 
Humble  as  the  Mother  mild, 

Blue  as  were  her  eyes  when  watching 
O'er  her  sleeping  Child. 

Strew  white  Lilies,  pure  and  spotless, 
Bending  on  their  stalks  of  green, 

Bending  down  with  tender  pity, — 
Like  our  Holy  Queen. 

Let  the  flowers  spend  their  fragrance 
On  our  Lady's  own  dear  shrine,' 

While  we  claim  her  gracious  helping 
Near  her  Son  divine. 

Strew  before  our  Lady's  picture 
Gentle  flowers,  fair  and  sweet ; 

Hope,  and  Fear,  and  Joy,  and  Sorrow, 
Place,  too,  at  her  feet. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.  393 

Hark  !  the  Angelus  is  ringing, — 
Ringing  through  the  fading  light, 

In  the  heart  of  every  blossom 
Leave  a  prayer  to-night. 

All  night  long  will  Mary  listen, 
While  our  pleadings  fond  and  deep 

On  their  scented  breath  are  rising 
For  us — while  we  sleep. 

Scarcely  through  the  starry  silence 

Shall  one  trembling  petal  stir, 
While  they  breathe  their  own  sweet  fragrance 

And  our  prayers — to  Her. 

Peace  to  every  heart  that  loves  her  ! 

All  her  children  shall  be  blest : 
While  She  prays  and  watches  for  us, 

We  will  trust  and  rest. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

THE  moon  that  now  is  shining 
In  skies  so  blue  and  bright, 

Shone  ages  since  on  Shepherds 
Who  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

There  was  no  sound  upon  the  earth, 
The  azure  air  was  still, 

The  sheep  in  quiet  clusters  lay 
Upon  the  grassy  hill. 


394  A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

When  lo  !  a  white-winged  Angel 

The  watchers  stood  before, 
And  told  how  Christ  was  born  on  earth 

For  mortals  to  adore  ; 
He  bade  the  trembling  Shepherds 

Listen,  nor  be  afraid, 
And  told  how  in  a  manger 

The  glorious  Child  was  laid. 

When  suddenly  in  the  Heavens 

Appeared  an  Angel  band, 
(The  while  in  reverent  wonder 

The  Syrian  Shepherds  stand.) 
And  all  the  bright  host  chanted 

Words  that  shall  never  cease, 
Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 

On  earth  good-will  and  peace  ! 

The  vision  in  the  heavens 

Faded,  and  all  was  still, 
And  the  wondering  shepherds  left  their  flocks 

To  feed  upon  the  hill : 
Towards  the  blessed  city 

Quickly  their  course  they  held, 
And  in  a  lowly  stable 

Virgin  and  child  beheld. 

Beside  a  humble  manger 

Was  the  Maiden  Mother  mild, 

And  in  her  arms  her  Son  divine, 
A  new-born  Infant,  smiled. 


OUR  TITLES.  395 

No  shade  of  future  sorrow 

From  Calvary  then  was  cast ; 
Only  the  glory  was  revealed, 

The  suffering  was  not  passed. 

The  Eastern  kings  before  him  knelt, 

And  rarest  offerings  brought ; 
The  shepherds  worshipped  and  adored 

The  wonders  God  had  wrought : 
They  saw  the  crown  for  Israel's  King, 

The  future's  glorious  part  :— 
But  all  these  things  the  Mother  kept 

And  pondered  in  her  heart. 

Now  we  that  Maiden  Mother 

The  Queen  of  Heaven  call ; 
And  the  Child  we  call  our  Jesus, 

Saviour  and  Judge  of  all. 
But  the  star  that  shone  in  Bethlehem 

Shines  still,  and  shall  not  cease, 
And  we  listen  still  to  the  tidings, 

Of  Glory  and  of  Peace. 


OUR  TITLES. 

AEE  we  not  Nobles  ?  we  who  trace 

Our  pedigree  so  high 
That  God  for  us  and  for  our  race 

Created  Earth  and  Sky, 
And  Light  and  Air  and  Time  and  Space, 

To  serve  us  and  then  die, 


396  °UR  TITLES. 

Are  we  not  Princes  ?  we  who  stand 
As  heirs  beside  the  Throne : 

We  who  can  call  the  Promised  Land 
Our  Heritage,  our  own  ; 

And  answer  to  no  less  command 
Than  God's  and  His  alone. 

Are  we  not  kings  ?  both  night  and  day, 

From  early  until  late, 
About  our  bed,  about  our  way, 

A  guard  of  Angels  wait ; 
And  so  we  watch  and  work  and  pray 

In  more  than  royal  state. 
Are  we  not  holy  ?     Do  not  start 

It  is  God's  sacred  will 
To  call  us  Temples  set  apart 

His  Holy  Ghost.may  fill : 
Our  very  food  .  .  .  .  O  hush,  my  Heart, 

Adore  IT  and  be  still ! 
Are  we  not  more  ?  our  Life  shall  be 

Immortal  and  divine. 
The  nature  Mary  gave  to  Thee, 

Dear  Jesus,  still  is  Thine  ; 
Adoring  in  Thy  Heart,  I  see 

Such  blood  as  beats  in  mine. 

O  God,  that  we  can  dare  to  fail, 

And  dare  to  say  we  must ! 
O  God,  that  we  can  ever  trail 

Such  banners  in  the  dust, 
Can  let  such  starry  honors  pale, 

And  such  a  Blazon  rust ! 


MINISTERING  ANGELS.  397 

Shall  we  upon  such  Titles  bring 

The  taint  of  sin  and  shame? 
Shall  we,  the  children  of  the  King 

Who  hold  so  grand  a  claim, 
Tarnish  by  any  meaner  thing 

The  glory  of  our  name  ? 


MINISTERING  ANGELS. 

ANGELS  of  light,  spread  your  bright  wings  and  keep 

Near  me  at  morn  : 
Nor  in  the  starry  eve,  nor  midnight  deep, 

Leave  me  forlorn. 

From  all  dark  spirits  of  unholy  power 

Guard  my  weak  heart, 
Circle  around  me  in  each  perilous  hour, 

And  take  my  part. 

From  all  foreboding  thoughts  and  dangerous  fears 

Keep  me  secure  ; 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  through  the  bitterest  tears 

Still  to  endure. 

If  lonely  in  the  road  so  fair  and  wide 

My  feet  should  stray, 
Then  through  a  rougher,  safer  pathway  guide 

Me  day  by  day. 


398  THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

Should  my  heart  faint  at  its  unequal  strife, 

O  still  be  near  ! 
Shadow  the  perilous  sweetness  of  this  life 

With  holy  fear. 

Then  leave  me  not  alone  in  this  bleak  world, 

Where'er  I  roam, 
And  at  the  end,  with  your  bright  wings  unfurled, 

O  take  me  home  ! 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

THEKE  are  many  shrines  of  Our  Lady, 

In  different  lands  and  climes, 
Where  I  can  remember  kneeling 

In  old  and  belove'd  times. 

They  arise  now  like  stars  before  me, 
Through  the  long,  long  night  of  years  ; 

Some  are  bright  with  a  heavenly  radiance, 
And  others  shine  out  through  tears. 

They  arise  too  like  mystical  flowers, 
All  different,  and  all  the  same, — 

As  they  lie  in  my  heart  like  a  garland 
That  is  wreathed  round  Mary's  name. 

Thus  each  shrine  has  two  consecrations  ; 

One  all  the  faithful  can  trace, 
But  one  is  for  me  and  me  only, 

Holding  my  soul  with  its  grace. 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY.  399 

I. 

A  shrine  in  a  quaint  old  Chapel 

Defaced  and  broken  with  years, 
Where  the  pavement  is  worn  with  kneeling, 

And  the  step  with  kisses  and  tears. 

She  is  there  in  the  dawn  of  morning, 

When  the  day  is  blue  and  bright, 
In  the  shadowy  evening  twilight, 

And  the  silent,  starry  night. 

Through  the  dim  old  painted  window 

The  Hours  look  down,  and  shed 
A  different  glory  upon  her, 

Violet,  purple,  and  red. 

And  there — in  that  quaint  old  Chapel 

As  I  stood  one  day  alone — 
Came  a  royal  message  from  Mary 

That  claimed  my  life  as  her  own. 

II. 

I  remember  a  vast  Cathedral 

Which  holds  the  struggle  and  strife 

Of  a  grand  and  powerful  city, 

As  the  heart  holds  the  throb  of  a  life. 

Where  the  ebb  and  the  flow  of  passion, 

And  sin  in  its  rushing  tide, 
Have  dashed  on  that  worn  stone  chapel, 

Dashed,  and  broken,  and  died. 


400  THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

And  above  the  voices  of  sorrow 
And  the  tempter's  clamorous  din, 

The  voice  of  Mary  has  spoken 

And  conquered  the  pain  and  the  sin : 

For  long  ages  and  generations 

Have  come  there  to  strive  and  to  pray ; 

She  watched  and  guided  them  living, 
And  does  not  forget  them  to-day, 

And  once,  in  that  strange,  vast  City 
I  stood  in  its  great  stone  square, 

Alone  in  the  crowd  and  the  turmoil 
Of  the  pitiless  Southern  glare ; 

And  a  grief  was  upon  my  spirit 
Which  I  could  not  cast  away, 

It  weighed  on  my  heart  all  the  night-time, 
And  it  fretted  my  life  all  day. 

So  then  to  that  calm,  cool  refuge 
I  turned  from  the  noisy  street, 

And  I  carried  my  burden  of  sorrow — 
And  left  it  at  Mary's  feet. 


III. 

I  remember  a  lonely  chapel 
With  a  tender  claim  upon  me  ; 

It  was  built  for  the  sailors  only, 

And  they  call  it  the  Star  of  the  Sea. 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

And  the  murmuring  chant  of  the  vespers 
Seems  caught  up  by  the  wailing  breeze, 

And  the  throb  of  the  organ  is  echoed 
By  the  rush  of  the  silver  seas. 

And  the  votive  hearts  and  the  anchors 
Tell  of  danger  and  peril  past ; 

Of  the  hope  deferred  and  the  waiting, 
And  the  comfort  that  came  at  last. 

I  too  had  a  perilous  venture 

On  a  stormy  and  treacherous  main, 

And  I  too  was  pleading  to  Mary 
From  the  depths  of  a  heart  in  pain. 

It  was  not  a  life  in  peril, — 

O  God,  it  was  far,  far  more ! 
And  the  whirlpool  of  Hell's  temptations 

Lay  between  the  wreck  and  the  shore. 

Thick  mists  hid  the  light  of  the  beacon, 
And  the  voices  of  warning  were  dumb ; 

So  I  knelt  by  the  altar  of  Mary, 
And  told  her  Her  hour  was  come. 

For  she  waits  till  Earth's  aid  forsakes  us, 
Till  we  know  our  own  efforts  are  vain  ; 

And  we  wait,  in  our  faithless  blindness, 
Till  no  chance  but  her  prayers  remain. 

And  now  in  that  seaside  chapel 
By  that  humble  village  shrine 

Hangs  a  heart  of  silver,  that  tells  her 
Of  the  love  and  the  gladness  of  mine. 

26 


402  THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

IV. 

There  is  one  far  shrine  I  remember 
In  the  years  that  are  fled  away, 

Where  the  grand  old  mountains  are  guarding 
The  glories  of  night  and  day. 

Where  the  earth  in  her  rich,  glad  beauty 
Seems  made  for  our  Lady's  throne, 

And  the  stars  in  their  radiant  clusters 
Seem  fit  for  her  crown  alone. 

Where  the  balmy  breezes  of  summer 

On  their  odorous  pinions  bear, 
The  fragrance  of  orange  blossoms, 

And  the  chimes  of  the  Convent  prayer. 

There  I  used  to  ask  for  her  blessing 
As  each  summer  twilight  was  gray ; 

There  I  used  to  kneel  at  her  altar 
At  each  blue,  calm  dawn  of  day. 

There  in  silence  was  Victory  granted, 

And  the  terrible  strife  begun, 
That  only  with  Her  protection 

Could  be  dared,  or  suffered,  or  won. 

If  I  love  the  name  of  that  Altar, 

And  the  thought  of  those  days  gone  by, 

It  is  only  the  Heart  of  Mary 

And  my  own  that  remember  why. 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY.  £03 

V. 

Where  long  ages  of  toil  and  of  sorrow, 

And  Poverty's  weary  doom, 
Have  clustered  together  so  closely 

That  life  seems  shadowed  with  gloom, 

Where  crime  that  lurks  in  the  darkness, 

And  vice  that  glares  at  the  day 
Make  the  spirit  of  hope  grow  weary, 

And  the  spirit  of  love  decay, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  wretched  and  sinful 

Have  closest  and  ofteriest  trod 
Is  a  house,  as  humble  as  any, 

Yet  we  call  it  the  House  of  God. 

It  is  one  of  our  Lady's  Chapels  ; 

And  though  poorer  than  all  the  rest, 
Just  because  of  the  sin  and  the  sorrow, 

I  think  she  loves  it  the  best. 

There  are  no  rich  gifts  on  the  Altar, 

The  shrine  is  humble  and  bare, 
Yet  the  poor  and  the  sick  and  the  tempted 

Think  their  home  and  their  heaven  is  there. 

And  before  that  humble  Altar 

Where  Our  Lady  of  Sorrow  stands, 

I  knelt  with  a  weary  longing, 
And  I  laid  a  vow  in  her  hands. 


404:  THE  SHRINES  OF  MARY. 

And  I  know,  when  I  enter  softly 
And  pause  at  that  shrine  to  pray, 

That  the  fret  and  the  strife  and  the  burden 
Will  be  softened  and  laid  away. 

And  the  Prayer  and  the  Vow  that  sealed  it 
Have  bound  my  soul  to  that  shrine, 

For  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  remembers 
Her  promise  and  waits  for  mine. 

It  is  one  long  chaplet  of  memories 

Tender  and  true  and  sweet, 
That  gleam  in  the  Past  and  the  Distance 

Like  lamps  that  burn  at  her  feet. 

Like  stars  that  will  shine  forever, 
For  time  cannot  touch  or  stir 

The  graces  that  Mary  has  given, 
Or  the  trust  that  we  give  to  her. 

Past  griefs  are  perished  and  over, 
Past  joys  have  vanished  and  died, 

Past  loves  are  fled  and  forgotten, 
Past  hopes  have  been  laid  aside. 

Past  fears  have  faded  in  daylight, 
Past  sins  have  melted  in  tears  ; — 

One  Love  and  Remembrance  only 
Seems  alive  in  those  dead  old  years. 

So  wherever  I  look  in  the  distance, 
And  whenever  I  turn  to  the  Past, 

There  is  always  a  shrine  of  Mary 
Each  brighter  still  than  the  last. 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR.  405 

I  will  ask  for  one  grace,  O  Mother ! 

And  will  leave  the  rest  to  thy  will : 
From  one  shrine  of  thine  to  another, 

Let  my  Life  be  a  Pilgrimage  still ! 


At  each  one,  O  Mother  of  Mercy  ! 

Let  still  more  of  thy  love  be  given, 
Till  I  kneel  at  the  last  and  brightest, — 

The  Throne  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven. 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 

CALM  the  city  lay  in  midnight  silence, 

Deep  on  streets  and  roofs  the  snow  lay  white  ; 

Then  I  saw  an  Angel  spread  his  pinions 
Rising  up  to  Heaven  to  meet  the  night. 

In  his  hands  he  bore  two  crowns  of  lilies, 
Sweet  with  sweetness  not  of  earthly  flowers, 

But  a  coronal  of  prayers  for  Heaven 

He  had  gathered  through  the  evening  hours ; — 

He  had  gathered  in  that  mighty  city 

Through  whose  streets  and  path  ways  he  had  trod 
Till  he  wove  into  a  winter  garland 

Prayers  that  faithful  hearts  had  sent  to  God. 


406  THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 

Through  the  azure  midnight  he  was  rising  ; 

As  I  watched,  I  saw  his  upward  flight 
Checked  by  a  mighty  Angel,  whose  stern  challenge, 

Like  a  silver  blast  rang  through  the  night. 
Then  strange  words  upon  the  silence  broke, 
And  I  listened  as  the  Angels  spoke. 

THE  ANGEL   OF   PRAYERS. 

"  I  have  come  from  wandering  through  the  city, 
I  have  been  to  seek  a  garland  meet 

To  be  placed  before  His  throne  in  Heaven, 
To  be  laid  at  His  dear  Mother's  feet. 

"  I  have  been  to  one  of  England's  Havens, — 
To  a  HOME  for  peace  and  honor  planned, 

Where  the  kindly  lights  of  joy  and  duty 
Meet  and  make  the  glory  of  the  land. 

"  There  I  heard  the  ring  of  children's  laughter 
Hushed  to  eager  silence  ;  I  could  see 

How  the  father  stroked  their  golden  tresses 
As  they  clustered  closer  round  his  knee. 

"  And  I  heard  him  tell,  with  loving  honor, 
How  the  wanderers  to  Bethlehem  came, 

And  I  saw  each  head  in  reverence  bowing 
When  he  named  the  Holy  Child's  dear  name. 

"  Then  he  told  how  houseless,  homeless,  friendless, 
They  had  wandered  wearily  and  long, — 

Of  the  manger  where  our  Lord  was  cradled, 
Of  the  Shepherds  listening  to  our  song. 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR.  407 

"  As  he  spoke,  I  heard  his  accents  falter, 
And  I  saw  each  childish  heart  was  stirred 

With  a  loving  throb  of  tender  pity 

At  the  sorrowful,  sweet  tale  they  heard. 

"  As  the  children  sang  their  Christmas  carol 
I  could  see  the  mother's  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  she  held  her  baby  closer, — feeling 
Most  for  Mary  through  her  love  for  him. 

"  So  I  gathered  from  that  home,  as  flowers, 
All  the  tender,  loving  words  I  heard 

Given  this  night  to  Jesus  and  to  Mary, — 
Look  at  them,  and  say  if  I  have  erred." 


THE  ANGEL  OP  DEEDS. 

"  In  that  very  street,  at  that  same  hour, 

In  the  bitter  air  and  drifting  sleet, 
Crouching  in  a  doorway  was  a  mother, 

With  her  children  shuddering  at  her  feet. 

"She  was  silent; — who  would  hear  her  pleading? 

Men  and  beasts  were  housed ;  but  she  must  stay 
Houseless  in  the  great  and  pitiless  city, 

Till  the  dawning  of  the  winter  day. 

"  Homeless — while  her  fellow-men  are  resting 
Calm  and  blest :  their  very  dogs  are  fed, 

Warm  and  sheltered,  and  their  sleeping  children 
Safely  nestled  in  each  little  bed. 


4-08  THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 

"  She  can  only  draw  her  poor  rags  closer 
Round  her  wailing  baby, — closer  hold 

One,  the  least  and  sickliest, — while  the  others 
Creep  together,  tired,  hungry,  cold. 

"What  are  these  poor  flowers  thon  hast  gathered? 

Cast  such  fragile,  worthless  tokens  by : 
Will  He  prize  mere  words  of  love  and  honor 

While  His  Homeless  Poor  are  left  to  die  ? 

"  He  has  said — His  truths  are  all  eternal — 
What  He  said  both  has  been  and  shall  be, 

What  ye  have  not  done  to  these  my  poor  ones 
Lo  !  ye  have  not  done  it  unto  Me." 

Then  I  saw  the  Angel  with  the  flowers 
Bow  his  head  and  answer,  "  It  is  well," 

As  he  cast  a  wreath  of  lilies  earthward, 
And  I  saw  them  wither  as  they  fell. 

Once  again  the  Angel  raised  his  head, 

Smiled  and  showed  the  other  wreath  and  said : — 

THE  ANGEL  OF  PRAYERS. 

"  I  have  been  where,  kneeling  at  the  Altar, 
Hushed  in  reverent  awe,  a  faithful  throng 

Have  this  night  adored  the  Holy  Presence, 
Worshipping  with  incense,  prayer,  and  song. 

"  Every  head  was  bowed  in  loving  honor, 
Every  heart  with  loving  awe  was  thrilled ; 

Earth  and  things  of  earth  seemed  all  forgotten ; 
He  was  there — and  meaner  thoughts  were  stilled. 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR.  409 

"  There  on  many  souls  in  strait  and  peril 

Did  that  gracious  Benediction  fall, 
With  the  strength  or  peace  or  joy  or  warning 

He  could  give,  who  loved  and  knew  them  all. 

"  There  was  silence,  but  all  hearts  were  speaking  : 
When  the  deepest  hush  of  silence  fell, 

On  the  fragrant  air  and  breathless  longing 
Came  the  echo  of  one  silver  bell. 

"  On  each  spirit  such  a  flood  of  sweetness 
Broke — as  we  who  dwell  in  Heaven  feel, 

Then  the  Adoremus  in  eternum, 

Jubilant  and  strong,  rolled  peal  on  peal. 

"  They  had  given  holy  adoration, 

Tender  words  of  love  and  praise  ;  all  bright 
With  the  dew  of  contrite  tears — such  blossoms 

I  am  bearing  to  His  throne  to-night." 

THE   ANGEL   OP   DEEDS. 

Pause  again  :  these  flowers  are  fair  and  lovely, 
Radiant  in  their  perfume  and  their  bloom  : 

But  not  far  from  where  you  plucked  this  garland 
Is  a  squalid  place  in  ghastly  gloom. 

"  There  black  waters  in  their  luring  silence 
Under  loathsome  arches  crawl  and  creep, 

There  the  rats  and  vermin  herd  together.  .  . 
There  God's  poor  ones  sometimes  come  to  sleep. 

"  There  the  weary  come,  who  through  the  daylight 
Pace  the  town,  and  crave  for  work  in  vain  ; 

There  they  crouch  in  cold  and  rain  and  hunger, 
Waiting  for  another  day  of  pain. 


410  THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 

"  In  slow  darkness  creeps  the  dismal  river, 
From  its  depths  looks  up  a  sinful  rest ; 

Many  a  weary,  baffled,  hopeless  wanderer 
Has  it  drawn  into  its  treacherous  breast. 

"  There  is  near  another  River  flowing, 

Black  with  guilt,  and  deep  as  hell  and  sin ; 

On  its  brink  even  sinners  stand  and  shudder, — 
Cold  and  hunger  goad  the  homeless  in. 

"  Yet  these  poor  ones  to  His  heart  are  dearer 
For  their  grief  and  peril :  dear  indeed 

Would  have  been  the  love  that  sought  and  fed  them, 
Gave  them  warmth  and  shelter  in  their  need. 

"  For  His  sake  those  tears  and  prayers  are  offered 
Which  you  bear  as  flowers  to  His  throne  ; 

Better  still  would  be  the  food  and  shelter, 
Given  for  Him  and  given  to  His  own. 

"  Praise  with  loving  deeds  is  dear  and  holy, 
Words  of  praise  will  never  serve  instead : 

Lo  !  you  offer  music,  hymn,  and  incense — 
When  He  has  not  ivliere  to  lay  His  head." 

Then  once  more  the  Angel  with  the  flowers 
Bowed  his  head,  and  answered,  "  It  is  well," 

As  he  cast  a  wreath  of  lilies  earthwards, 
And  I  saw  them  wither  as  they  fell. 

So  the  Vision  faded,  and  the  Angels 

Melted  far  into  the  starry  sky  ; 
By  the  light  upon  the  eastern  Heaven 

I  could  see  another  day  was  nigh. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  411 

Was  it  quite  a  dream  ?     O  God  !  we  love  Him  ; 

All  our  love,  though  weak,  is  given  to  Him  ; — 
Why  is  it  our  hearts  have  been  so  hardened  ? 

Why  is  it  our  eyes  have  been  so  dim  ? 

Still  as  for  Himself  the  Infant  Jesus 
In  His  little  ones  asks  food  and  rest, — 

Still  as  for  His  Mother  He  is  pleading 
Just  as  when  He  lay  upon  her  breast. 

Jesus,  then,  and  Mary  still  are  with  us, — 
Night  will  find  the  Child  and  Mother  near, 

Waiting  for  the  shelter  we  deny  them, 

While  we  tell  them  that  we  hold  them  dear. 

Help  us,  Lord  !  not  these  Thy  poor  ones  only, 
They  are  with  us  always,  and  shall  be  : — 

Help  the  blindness  of  our  hearts,  and  teach  us 
In  Thy  homeless  ones  to  succor  Thee. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

THE  PRIEST'S  STORY. 

i. 

THERE  are  times  when  all  these  terrors 
Seem  to  fade,  and  fade  away, 

Like  a  nightmare's  ghastly  presence 
In  the  truthful  dawn  of  day. 


4:12  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

There  are  times,  too,  when  before  me 
They  arise,  and  seem  to  hold 

In  their  grasp  my  very  being 

With  the  deadly  strength  of  old, 

Till  my  spirit  quails  within  me, 
And  my  very  heart  grows  cold. 

n. 

For  I  watched  when  Cold  and  Hunger, 

Like  wild  beasts  that  sought  for  prey, 
With  a  savage  glare  crept  onward 

Until  men  were  turned  at  bay. 
You  have  never  seen  those  hunters, 

Who  have  never  known  that  fear, 
When  life  costs  a  crust,  and  costing 

Even  that  is  still  too  dear  : 
But,  you  know,  I  lived  in  Ireland 

In  the  fatal  famine  year. 

in. 

Yes,  those  days  are  now  forgotten ; 

God  be  thanked !  men  can  forget ; 
Time's  great  gift  can  heal  the  fevers 

Called  Remembrance  and  Regret, 
Man  despises  such  forgetting  ; 

But  I  think  the  Angels  know, 
Since  each  hour  brings  new  burdens, 

We  must  let  the  old  ones  go, — 
Very  weak  or  very  noble 

Are  the  few  who  cling  to  woe. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  413 

IV. 

As  a  child,  I  lived  in  Connaught, 

And  from  dawn  till  set  of  sun 
Played  with  all  the  peasant-children, 

So  I  knew  them  every  one. 
There  was  not  a  cabin  near  us, 

But  I  had  my  welcome  there ; 
Though  of  money-help  in  those  days 

We  had  none  ourselves  to  spare, 
Yet  the  neighbors  had  no  trouble 

That  I  did  not  know  and  share. 


v. 

O  that  great  estate  !  the  Landlord 

Was  abroad,  a  good  man  too ; 
And  the  agent  was  not  cruel, 

But  he  had  hard  things  to  do. 
As  a  child  I  saw  great  suffering 

Which  I  could  not  understand, 
So  I  went  back  as  a  man  there 

With  redress  and  helping  planned  ; 
But  I  found,  on  reaching  Connaught, 

There  was  famine  in  the  land. 

VI. 

Well,  I  worked,  I  toiled,  I  labored  ; 

So,  thank  God,  did  many  more  ; 
But  I  had  a  special  pity 

For  the  place  I  knew  before. 


414:  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

It  was  changed  ;  the  old  were  vanished  ; 

Those  who  had  been  workers  there 
Were  grown  old  now  ;  and  the  children 

With  their  sunny  eyes  and  hair, 
Were  a  ragged  army,  fighting 

Hand  to  hand  with  black  despair. 

VII. 

There  were  some  I  sought  out,  longing 

For  the  old  familiar  face, 
For  the  hearty  Irish  welcome 

To  the  well-known  corner  place ; 
So  I  saw  them,  and  I  found  it. 

But  of  all  whom  I  had  known, 
I  cared  most  to  see  the  Connors  : 

Their  poor  cabin  stood  alone 
In  the  deep  heart  of  the  valley, 

By  the  old  gray  fairy  stone. 

VIII. 

They  were  decent  people,  holding, 

Though  no  richer  than  the  rest, 
Still  a  place  beyond  their  neighbors, 

With  a  tacit,  unconfessed 
Pride — it  may  have  been — that  held  them 

From  complaint  when  things  went  ill : 
I  might  guess  when  work  was  slacker, 

But  no  shadow  seemed  to  chill 
The  warm  welcome  which  they  offered ; 

It  was  warm  and  cheerful  still. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  415 

IX. 

Yet  their  home  was  changed :  the  father 

And  the  mother  were  no  more ; 
And  the  brothers,  Phil  and  Patrick, 

Kept  starvation  from  the  door. 
There  were  many  little  faces 

Gathered  round  the  old  hearth-stone ; 
But  the  children  I  had  played  with 

Were  the  men  and  women  grown ; 
Phil  and  Patrick,  Kate  and  Milly, 

Were  the  ones  whom  I  had  known. 


x. 

Kate  was  grown,  but  little  altered, 

Just  the  sunburnt,  rosy  face, 
With  its  merry  smile,  whose  shining 

Seemed  to  light  the  darkest  place. 
But  all,  young  and  old,  held  Milly 

As  their  dearest  and  their  best, 
From  the  baby  orphan-sisters 

Whom  she  hushed  upon  her  breast, — 
She  it  was  who  bore  the  burdens, 

Love  and  sorrow,  for  the  rest. 

XI. 

Yes,  I  knew  the  tall  slight  figure, 
And  the  face  so  pale  and  fair, 

Crowned  with  long,  long  plaited  tresses 
Of  her  shining  yellow  hair ; 


416  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

She  was  very  calm  and  tender, 

Warm  and  brave,  yet  just  and  wise, 

Meeting  grief  with  tender  pity, 
Sin  with  sorrowful  surprise  : 

I  have  fancied  Angels  watch  us 
With  such  sad  and  loving  eyes. 

XII. 

Well,  I  questioned  past  and  future, 

Heard  of  plans  and  hopes  and  fears  ; 
How  all  prospects  grew  still  darker 

With  the  shade  of  coming  years. 
Milly  still  deferred  her  marriage  ; 

But  the  brothers  urged  of  late 
She  would  leave  them  and  old  Ireland, 

And  at  least  secure  her  fate  ; 
Michael  pleaded  too, — but  vainly  ; 

Milly  chose  to  wait  and  wait. 

XIII. 

Though  all  liked  her  cousin  Michael, — 

He  was  steady,  a  good  sou, — 
Yet  we  wondered  at  the  treasure 

Which  his  careless  heart  had  won. 
Ah,  he  was  not  worth  her !     Milly 

Must  have  guessed  our  thought  in  part 
For  she  feigned  such  special  deference 

For  his  judgment  and  his  heart ! 
The  defiance  and  the  answer 

Of  instinctive  woman's  art. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  417 

XIV. 

But  my  duties  would  not  let  me 

Stay  in  one  place  ;  I  must  go 
Where  the  want  and  need  were  greatest ; 

So  I  travelled  to  and  fro. 
And  I  could  not  give  the  bounty 

Which  was  meant  for  all  to  share, 
Save  in  scanty  portions,  counting 

What  each  hamlet  had  to  bear ; 
So  my  old  home  and  old  comrades 

Had  to  struggle  with  despair. 

XV. 

I  could  note  at  every  visit 

How  all  suffered  more  and  more  ; 
How  the  rich  were  growing  poorer, 

The  poor,  poorer  than  before. 
And  each  time  that  I  returned  there, 

I  could  see  the  famine  spread ; 
Till  I  heard  of  each  fresh  horror, 

Each  new  tale  of  fear  and  dread, 
With  more  pity  for  the  living, 

More  rejoicing  for  the  dead. 

XVI. 

Yet  through  all  the  bitter  trials 

Of  that  long  and  fearful  time, 
Still  the  suffering  came  untended 

By  its  hideous  sister,  Crime. 
27 


418  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

Earthly  things  seemed  grown  less  potent, 
Fellow-sufferers  grown  more  dear. 

Murmurs  even  hushed  in  silence, 
Just  as  if,  in  listening  fear, 

While  God  spoke  so  loud  in  sorrow, 
They  all  felt  He  must  be  near. 

XVII. 

But  one  day — I  well  remember 

How  the  warm  soft  autumn  breeze, 
And  the  gladness  of  the  sunshine, 

And  the  calmness  of  the  seas, 
Seemed  in  strange  unnatural  contrast 

To  the  tale  of  woe  and  dread 
Which  I  heard  with  painful  wonder, — 

That  the  agent — I  have  said 
That  he  was  not  harsh  or  cruel — 

Had  been  shot  at,  and  was  dead. 

xvin. 

For  I  felt  in  that  small  hamlet 

More  or  less  I  knew  them  all, 
And  on  some  I  cared  for,  surely, 

Must  this  bitter  vengeance  fall ; 
But  I  little  dreamed  how  bitter, 

And  the  grief  how  great  and  wide, 
Till  I  heard  that  Michael  Connor 

Was  accused,  arid  would  be  tried 
For  this  base  and  bloody  murder ; 

Then  I  cried  out  that  they  lied  I 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  419 

XIX. 

He,  who  might  be  weak  and  reckless, 

Yet  was  gentle  and  humane  : 
He  who  scarcely  had  the  courage 

To  inflict  a  needful  pain, — 
Why,  it  could  not  be  !     And  Milly, 

With  her  honest,  noble  pride, 
And  her  faith  and  love,  God  help  her ! 

It  were  better  she  had  died. 
So  I  thought,  and  thought,  and  pondered, 

Till  I  knew  they  must  have  lied. 

XX. 

There  was  want  and  death  and  hunger 

Near  me  then  ;  but  this  great  crime 
Seemed  to  haunt  me  with  its  terrors 

And  grew  worse  and  worse  with  time, 
Till  I  could  not  bear  it  longer, 

And  I  turned  my  steps  once  more 
To  the  hamlet ;  did  not  slacken 

Till  I  reached  the  cabin-door : 
Then  I  paused ;  I  never  dreaded 

The  kind  welcome  there  before. 

XXI. 

So  I  entered.     Kate  was  sitting 

By  the  empty  hearth  ;  around 
Were  the  children,  ragged,  hungry, 

Crouching  silent  on  the  ground. 


4:20  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

But  a  wail  of  grief  and  sorrow 
Rose,  and  Katie  hid  her  face, 

Sobbing  out  she  had  no  welcome, 
For  a  curse  was  on  the  place, 

And  their  honest  name  was  covered 
With  another's  black  disgrace. 

XXII. 

Then  I  soothed  her  ;  asked  for  Milly ; 

And  was  told  she  was  away ; 
Gone  as  witness  to  the  trial, 

And  the  trial  was  that  day. 
But  all  knew,  so  Katie  told  me, 

Hope  or  comfort  there  was  none ; 
They  were  sure  to  find  him  guilty, 

And  before  to-morrow's  sun 
He  must  die.     I  dared  not  loiter, 

For  the  trial  had  begun. 

XXIII. 

Yet  I  asked  how  Milly  bore  it ; 

And  Kate  told  me  some  strange  gleam 
Of  wild  hope  seemed  living  in  her, 

But  all  knew  it  was  a  dream. 
Then  I  mounted  ;  rode  on  faster, 

Faster  still ;  the  way  was  long  ; 
Hope  and  anger,  fear  and  pity, 

Each  by  turns  were  loud  and  strong, 
And  above  all,  infinite  pity, 

For  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  421 

XXIV. 

So  I  rode  and  rode,  and  entered 

On  the  crowded  market-place. 
There  was  wonder,  too,  and  pity 

Upon  many  a  hungry  face  ; 
But  I  pushed  on  quicker,  quicker, 

Every  moment  held  a  fate. 
As  the  great  town-clock  struck  mid-day, 

I  alighted  at  the  gate  : 
No,  the  trial  was  not  over ; 

I  was  not,  thank  God,  too  late. 

XXV. 

For  I  hoped — the  chance  was  meagre — 

That  my  true  and  earnest  word 
Might  avail  him,  if  the  question 

Of  his  former  life  was  stirred ; 
So  the  crowd  believed :  they  parted, 

Let  me  take  a  foremost  place, 
Till  I  saw  a  shaking  figure 

And  a  terror-stricken  face  : 
Was  it  guilt,  or  only  terror  ? 

Fear  of  death,  or  of  disgrace  ? 

XXVI. 

But  a  sudden  breathless  silence 
Hushed  the  lowest  whisper  there, 

And  I  saw  a  slight  young  figure 
Crowned  with  yellow  plaited  hair, 


4-22  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

Rise,  and  answer  as  they  called  her ; 

Rise  before  them  all,  and  stand, 
With  no  quiver  in  her  accent, 

And  no  trembling  in  her  hand, 
Just  a  flush  upon  her  forehead 

Like  a  burning  crimson  brand. 

xxvn. 

Slowly,  steadily,  and  calmly, 

Then  the  awful  words  were  said, 
Calling  God  in  Heaven  to  witness 

To  the  truth  of  what  she  said. 
As  the  oath  in  solemn  order 

On  the  reverent  silence  broke, 
Some  strange  terror  and  misgiving 

With  a  sudden  start  awoke  : 
What  fear  was  it  seized  upon  me 

As  I  heard  the  words  she  spoke  ? 

XXVIII. 

As  she  stood  there,  looking  onward, 

Onward,  neither  left  nor  right, 
Did  she  see  some  deadly  purpos' 

Buried,  hidden  out  of  sight  ? 
Did  she  see  a  blighting  shadow 

From  the  cloudy  future  cast  ? 
Or  reluctant  fading  from  her 

Right  and  honor, — fading  fast, 
All  her  youth's  remembered  lessons, 

All  the  honest,  noble  past  ? 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  423 

XXIX. 

But  her  accents  never  faltered, 

As  she  swore  the  day  and  time 
At  the  hour  of  the  murder, 

At  the  moment  of  the  crime, 
She  had  spoken  with  the  prisoner ; 

Then  a  gasping  joyful  sigh 
Ran  through  all  the  court ;  they  knew  it, 

Now  the  prisoner  would  not  die, 
And  I  knew  that  God  in  Heaven 

Had  been  witness  to  a  lie  ! 

XXX. 

Then  I  turned  and  looked  at  Michael ; 

Saw  a  rush  of  wonder  stir 
Through  his  soul ;  perplexed,  bewildered, 

He  looked  strangely  up  at  her. 
"Would  he  speak  ?  could  he  have  courage  ? 

Where  she  fell,  could  he  be  strong  ? 
Where  she  sinned,  and  sinned  to  save  him, 

Could  he  thrust  away  the  wrong  ? 
That  one  moment's  strange  revulsion 

Seemed  to  me  an  hour  long. 

XXXT. 

And  I  saw  the  sudden  shrinking 
In  her  brothers  ;  wondering  scorn 

In  the  glance  they  cast  upon  her 

Showed  they  knew  she  was  forsworn. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

They  were  stern,  by  want  made  sterner ; 

But  the  spot  where  Milly  came 
In  their  hearts  was  soft  and  tender 

For  her  dear  and  honored  name: 
Now  tho  very  love  was  hardened, 

And  the  honor  turned  to  shame. 

XXXII. 

So  I  left  the  place,  nor  lingered 

To  see  Michael,  or  to  feign 
Joy  where  joy  was  mixed  so  strangely 

Both  with  pity  and  with  pain. 
Many  weeks  I  toiled  and  labored 

Far  from  there,  but  night  and  day 
One  sad  memory  dwelt  beside  me, 

On  my  heart  one  shadow  lay  ; — 
Light  was  faded,  glory  tarnished, 

And  a  soul  was  cast  away. 
*  *  *  * 

xxxin. 

It  was  evening  ;  and  the  sunset 

Glowed  and  glittered  on  the  seas, 
When  a  great  ship  heaved  its  anchor, 

Loosed  its  sails  to  meet  the  breeze, 
Sailing,  sailing  to  the  westward 

Eyes  were  wet  and  hearts  were  sore  ; 
Many  a  heart  that  left  its  country, 

Many  a  heart  upon  the  shore, 
Knew  that  parting  was  forever, 

Said  farewell  forevermore. 


MILLY'S  EXPIATION.  435 

XXXIV. 

In  that  sad  and  silent  evening, 

On  the  sunny,  quiet  beach, 
Lingered  little  groups  of  watchers, 

But  with  hearts  too  full  for  speech. 
As  I  passed,  I  knew  so  many, 

That  my  heart  ached  too  that  night, 
For  the  yearning  love,  that,  gazing, 

Strained  to  see  the  last  faint  sight 
Of  the  great  ship,  sailing  westward, 

Down  the  track  of  evening  light. 

XXXV. 

None  were  lonely  though, — one  sorrow 

Drew  that  evening  heart  to  heart; 
Only  far  from  all  the  others 

One  lone  woman  stood  apart. 
There  was  something  in  the  figure, 

Tall  and  slender,  standing  there, 
That  I  knew — yet  no,  I  doubted — 

That  forlorn  and  helpless  air  ; 
When  a  gleam  of  sunset  glory 

Showed  her  yellow  braided  hair. 

xxxvr. 

It  was  Milly :  ere  I  sought  her, 
One  who  knew  her,  standing  by, 

Said,  "  Her  people  sailed  from  Ireland, 
And  she  stayed,  but  none  knew  why. 


426  MILLY'S  EXPIATION. 

They  were  strong  ;  in  that  far  country 
Work  such  men  were  sure  to  find  ; 

They  had  offered  to  take  Milly, 
Pressed  her  often,  and  been  kind  ; 

They  had  taken  the  young  children, 
Only  she  was  left  behind. 

XXXVII. 

"  Michael,  too,  was  with  them  :  doubly 

Had  his  fame  been  cleared  by  time ; 
For  the  murderer,  lately  dying, 

Had  confessed  and  owned  the  crime : 
And  yet  Milly,  none  knew  wherefore, 

Broke  her  plighted  troth  to  him  ; 
Parted,  too,  with  all  her  loved  ones 

For  some  strange  and  selfish  whim." 
O,  my  heart  was  sore  for  Milly, 

And  I  felt  my  eyes  grow  dim. 

XXXVIII. 

She  is  still  _n  Ireland  ;  dwelling 

Near  the  old  place,  and  alone  ; 
Just  the  same  kind,  loving  spirit, 

But  the  old  light  heart  is  flown. 
When  the  humble  toil  is  over 

For  her  scanty  daily  bread, 
Then  she  turns  to  nurse  the  suffering, 

Or  to  pray  beside  the  dead  : 
Many,  many  thankful  blessings 

Fall  each  day  upon  her  head. 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR.  427 

XXXIX. 

There  is  no  distress  or  sorrow 

Milly  does  not  try  to  cheer ; 
There  is  never  fever  raging 

But  you  always  find  her  near  ; 
And  she  knows — at  least  I  think  so — 

That  I  guess  her  secret  pain, 
Why  her  Love  and  why  her  Sorrow 

Need  be  purified  from  stain, 
Need  in  special  consecration 

Be  restored  to  God  again. 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

I  BUILT  myself  a  castle, 
So  noble,  grand,  and  fair  ; 

I  built  myself  a  castle, 
A  castle — in  the  air. 

The  fancies  of  my  twilights 
That  fade  in  sober  truth, 

The  longing  of  my  sorrow, 
And  the  vision  of  my  youth ; 

The  plans  of  joyful  futures ; 

So  dear  they  used  to  seem  ; 
The  prayer  that  rose  unbidden, 

Half  prayer — and  half  a  dream  ; 


i28  PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM. 

The  hopes  that  died  unuttered 
Within  this  heart  of  mine  ; — 

For  all  these  tender  treasures 
My  castle  was  the  shrine. 

I  looked  at  all  the  castles 
That  rise  to  grace  the  land, 

But  I  never  saw  another 
So  stately  or  so  grand. 

And  now  you  see  it  shattered, 

My  castle  in  the  air  ; 
It  lies,  a  dreary  ruin, 

All  desolate  and  bare. 

I  cannot  build  another, 

I  saw  that  one  decay ; 
And  strength  and  heart  and  courage 

Died  out  the  self-same  day. 

Yet  still,  beside  that  ruin, 
With  hopes  as  deep  and  fond, 

I  waited  with  an  infinite  longing, 
Only — I  looked  beyond. 


PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM. 

I  DO  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 

A  pleasant  road  ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wouldst  take  from  me 

Aught  of  its  load  ; 


A  LEGEND.  429 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  plead, 

Lead  me  aright — 

Though  strength   should  falter,  and  though    heart 
should  bleed — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

My  way  to  see  ; 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand 

And  follow  Thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day ;  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night : 
Lead  me,  O  Lord, — till  perfect  Day  shall  shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 


A  LEGEND, 
i. 

THE  Monk  was  preaching :  strong  his  earnest  word, 
From  the  abundance  of  his  heart  he  spoke, 

And  the  flame  spread, — in  every  soul  that  heard 
Sorrow  and  love  and  good  resolve  awoke  : — 


430  A  LEGEND. 

The  poor  lay  Brother,  ignorant  and  old, 
Thanked  God  that  he  had  heard  such  words  of  gold. 

II. 

"  Still  let  the  glory,  Lord,  be  thine  alone," — 

So  prayed  the  Monk,  his  heart  absorbed  in  praise. 

"  Thine  be  the  glory :  if  my  hands  have  sown 
The  harvest  ripened  in  Thy  mercy's  rays, 

It  was  Thy  blessing,  Lord,  that  made  my  word 

Bring  light  and  love  to  every  soul  that  heard. 

in. 

"  O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  that  my  feeble  strength 
Has  been  so  blest ;  that  sinful  hearts  and  cold 

Were  melted  at  my  pleading, — knew  at  length 
How  sweet  Thy  service  and  how  safe  Thy  fold : 

While  souls  that  loved  Thee  saw  before  them  rise 

Still  holier  heights  of  loving  sacrifice." 

IV. 

So  prayed  the  Monk  :  when  suddenly  he  heard 
An  angel  speaking  thus  :  "  Know,  O  my  son, 

Thy  words  had  all  been  vain,  but  hearts  were  stirred, 
And  saints  were  edified,  and  sinners  won, 

By  his,  the  poor  lay  Brother's  humble  aid 

Who  sat  upon  the  pulpit  stair  and  prayed." 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS.  431 

BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 

FOE   A   CHILD. 

WHY  do  you  look  sad,  my  Minnie  ? 

Tell  me,  darling, — for  to-day 
Is  the  birthday  of  Our  Lady, 

And  Her  children  should  be  gay. 

What  ? — You  say  that  all  the  others, 

Alice,  Cyril,  Effie,  Paul, 
All  had  got  a  gift  to  give  Her, 

Only  you  had  none  at  all. 

Well,  dear,  that  does  seem  a  pity : 

Tell  me  how  it  came  about 
That  the  others  bring  a  present, 

And  my  Minnie  comes  without. 

Alice  has  a  lovely  Banner, 

All  embroidered  blue  and  gold  : — 

Then  you  know  that  sister  Alice 
Is  so  clever  and  so  old. 

Cyril  has  his  two  camellias : 

One  deep  red,  and  one  pure  white : 

They  will  stand  at  Benediction 
On  the  Altar  steps  to-night. 

Effie,  steady  little  Effie, 

Stitching  many  an  hour  away, 
She  has  clothed  a  little  orphan 

All  in  honor  of  to-day. 


432  BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 

With  the  skill  the  good  nuns  taught  her 

Angela  herself  has  made 
Two  tall  stems  of  such  real  lilies, 

They  do  all  but  smell — and  fade. 

Then  with  look  of  grave  importance 
Comes  our  quiet  little  Paul, 

With  the  myrtle  from  his  garden  : 
He  himself  is  not  as  tall. 

Even  Baby  Agnes,  kneeling 
With  half-shy,  half-solemn  air, 

Held  up  one  sweet  rose  to  Mary, 
Lisping  out  her  tiny  prayer. 

Well,  my  Minnie,  say,  how  was  it  ? 

Shall  I  guess  ?     I  think  I  know 
All  the  griefs.     Well,  I  will  count  them  : 

First,  your  rose-tree  would  not  blow : 

Then  the  fines  have  been  so  many 
All  the  pennies  melt  away  ; 

Then  for  work — I  know  my  Minnie 
Cares  so  very  much  for  play, 

That  these  little  clumsy  fingers 
Scarcely  yet  have  learnt  to  sew, 

Still  less  all  the  skilful  fancies 
Angela  and  Alice  know. 

Yet  my  Minnie  can't  be  treated 

Quite  as  Baby  was  to-day, 
When  Mamma  or  Alice  gave  her 

Something  just  to  give  away. 


28 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS.  433 

Well,  my  darling,  there  are  many 
Who  have  neither  time  nor  skill, 
Gold  nor  silver,  yet  they  offer 
Gifts  to  Mary  if  they  will. 

There  are  ways — Our  Lady  knows  them, 
And  Her  children  all  should  know 

How  to  find  a  flower  for  Mary. 
Underneath  the  deepest  snow ; 

How  to  make  a  lovely  garland, 

Winter  though  it  be  and  cold ; 
How  to  buy  the  rarest  offering, 

Costing — something — but  not  gold ; 

How  to  buy,  and  buy  it  dearly, 
Gifts  that  She  will  love  to  take  ; 

Nor  to  grudge  the  cost,  but  give  it 
Cheerfully  for  Mary's  sake. 

Does  that  seem  so  strange,  my  darling  ? 

Nay,  dear,  it  is  nothing  new; 
All  can  give  Her  noble  presents, — 

Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  few  ? 

What  were  those  the  Magi  offered, 
Frankincense  and  gold  and  myrrh : — 
Minnie  thinks  that  Saints  and  Monarchs 
Are  quite  different  from  her  ! 

.  .  .  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  listen 

To  a  word  unkind  or  cold 
And  to  smile  a  loving  answer ; 

Do  it — and  you  give  Her  Gold. 


434:  BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 

Thoughts  of  Her  in  work  or  playtime, 
Those  small  grains  of  incense  rare, 

Cast  upon  a  burning  censure, 
Rise  in  perfumed  clouds  of  prayer. 

There  are  sometimes  bitter  fancies, 
Little  murmurs  that  will  stir 

Even  a  loving  heart ; — but  crush  them 
And  you  give  Our  Lady  myrrh. 

Give  your  little  crosses  to  her, 
Which  each  day,  each  hour  befall ; 

They  remind  Her  of  Her  Jesus, 
So  she  loves  them  best  of  all. 

Some  seem  very  poor  and  worthless, 
Yet  however  small  and  slight, 

Given  to  her  by  one  who  loves  her, 
They  are  precious  in  her  sight. 

One  may  be  so  hard  to  carry 

That  your  hands  will  bleed  and  smart 

Go  and  take  it  to  Her  Altar, 
Go  and  place  it  in  Her  heart ; 

Check  your  tears  and  try  to  love  it, 
Love  it  as  His  sacred  will : 

So  you  set  the  cross  with  jewels, 
Make  your  gift  more  precious  still. 

There  are  souls — alas  !  too  many — 
Who  forget  that  Jesus  died, 

Who  forget  that  sin  forever 
Is  the  lance  to  pierce  His  side. 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS.  435 

Hearts  that  turn  away  from  Jesus ; 

Sins  that  scourge  Him  and  betray ; 
Cold  and  cruel  souls  that  even 

Crucify  Him  day  by  day. 

Ah  !  poor  sinners  !  Mary  loves  them, 

And  she  knows  no  royal  gem 
Half  so  noble  or  so  precious 

As  the  prayer  you  say  for  them  ; 

Or  resign  some  little  pleasure, 

Give  it  her  instead,  to  win 
Help  for  some  poor  soul  in  peril, 

Grace  for  some  poor  heart  in  sin, 

Mercy  for  poor  sinners, — pleading 
For  their  souls  as  for  your  own  ; — 

So  you  make  a  crown  of  jewels 
Fit  to  lay  before  Her  throne. 

Flowers, —  why  I  should  never  finish 

If  I  tried  to  count  them  too, — 
If  I  told  you  how  to  know  them, 

In  what  garden-plot  they  grew. 

Yet  I  think  my  darling  guesses 
They  are  emblems,  and  we  trace 

In  the  rarest  and  the  loveliest 
Acts  of  love  and  gifts  of  grace. 

Modest  violets,  meek  snow-drops, 

Holy  lilies  white  and  pure, 
Faithful  tendrils — herbs  for  healing — 

If  they  only  would  endure  ! 


436  A  BEGGAR. 

And  they  will, — such  flowers  fade  not ; 

They  are  not  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  such  garlands  given  to  Mary 

Die  not  like  the  gifts  of  Earth. 

Well,  my  Minnie,  can  you  tell  me 

You  have  still  no  gift  to  lay 
At  the  feet  of  your  dear  Mother, 
Any  hour,  any  day  ? 

Give  her  now — to-day — forever, 

One  great  gift, — the  first,  the  best, — 

Give  your  heart  to  Her,  and  ask  her 
How  to  give  her  all  the  rest. 


A  BEGGAR. 

I  BEG  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  my  brothers, 

For  my  need  is  very  sore  ; 
Not  for  gold  and  not  for  silver  do  I  ask  you, 

But  for  something  even  more  : 
From  the  depths  of  your  hearts'  pity  let  it  be — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  those  whose  robes  of  radiant  whiteness 

Have  been  kept  without  a  stain  ; 
Of  you  who,  stung  to  death  by  serpent  Pleasure, 

Found  the  healing  Angel  Pain  ; 
Whether  holy  or  forgiven  you  may  be — 
Pray  for  me. 


A  BEGGAR.  437 

I  beg  of  you  calm  souls  whose  wondering  pity 

Looks  at  paths  you  never  trod: 
I  beg  of  you  who  suffer — for  all  sorrow 

Must  be  very  near  to  God — 
And  the  need  is  even  greater  than  you  see — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you,  O  children,  for  He  loves  you, 
And  He  loves  your  prayers  the  best : 

Fold  your  little  hands  together,  and  ask  Jesus 
That  the  weary  may  have  rest, 

That  a  bird  caught  in  a  net  may  be  set  free — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you  who  stand  before  the  Altar, 

Whose  anointed  hands  upraise 
All  the  sin  and  all  the  sorrow  of  the  Ages, 

All  the  love  and  all  the  praise, 
And  the  glory  which  was  always  and  shall  be — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you — of  you  who  through  Life's  battle 

Our  dear  Lord  has  set  apart, 
That  while  we  who  love  the  peril  are  made  captives, 

Still  the  Church  may  have  its  Heart 
Which  is  fettered  that  our  souls  may  be  set  free — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  my  brothers, 

For  an  alms  this  very  day ; 
I  am  standing  on  your  doorstep  as  a  Beggar 

Who  will  not  be  turned  away, 
And  the  Charity  you  give  my  soul  shall  be — - 

Pray  for  me  I 


438  LINKS  WITH  HEAVEN. 


LINKS  WITH  HEAVEN. 

OUR  God  in  Heaven,  from  that  holy  place, 
To  each  of  us  an  Angel  guide  has  given ; 

But  Mothers  of  dead  children  have  more  grace, — 
For  they  give  Angels  to  their  God  and  Heaven. 

How  can  a  Mother's  heart  feel  cold  or  weary 
Knowing  her  dearer  self  safe,  happy,  warm  ? 

How  can  she  feel  her  road  too  dark  or  dreary, 

Who  knows  her  treasure  sheltered  from  the  storm  ? 

How  can  she  sin?     Our  hearts  may  be  unheeding, 
Our  God  forgot,  our  holy  Saints  defied; 

But  can  a  mother  hear  her  dead  child  pleading, 
And  thrust  those  little  angel  hands  aside  ? 

Those  little  hands  stretched  down  to  draw  her  ever 
Nearer  to  God  by  mother  love  : — we  all 

Are  blind  and  weak,  yet  surely  she  can  never, 
With  such  a  stake  in  Heaven,  fail  or  fall. 

She  knows  that  when  the  mighty  Angels  raise 
Chorus  in  Heaven,  one  little  silver  tone 

Is  hers  forever,  that  one  little  praise, 
One  little  happy  voice,  is  all  her  own. 

We  may  not  see  her  sacred  crown  of  honor, 

But  all  the  Angels  flitting  to  and  fro 
Pause  smiling  as  they  pass, — they  look  upon  her 

As  mother  of  an  angel  whom  they  know, 


HOMELESS.  439 

One  whom  they  left  nestled  at  Mary's  feet, — 

The  children's  place  in  Heaven, — who  softly  sings 

A  little  chant  to  please  them,  slow  and  sweet, 
Or  smiling  strokes  their  little  folded  wings  ; 

Or  gives  them  Her  white  lilies  or  Her  beads 
To  play  with : — yet,  in  spite  of  flower  or  song, 

They  often  lift  a  wistful  look  that  pleads 

And  asks  Her  why  their  mother  stays  so  long, 

Then  our  dear  Queen  makes  answer  she  will  call 
Her  very  soon :  meanwhile  they  are  beguiled 

To  wait  and  listen  while  She  tells  them  all 
A  story  of  Her  Jesus  as  a  child. 

Ah,  Saints  in  Heaven  may  pray  with  earnest  will 
And  pity  for  their  weak  and  erring  brothel's : 

Yet  there  is  prayer  in  Heaven  more  tender  still, — 
The  little  Children  pleading  for  their  Mothers. 


HOMELESS. 

IT  is  cold,  dark  midnight,  yet  listen 

To  that  patter  of  tiny  feet ! 
Is  it  one  of  your  dogs,  fair  lady, 

Who  whines  in  the  bleak  cold  street? 
Is  it  one  of  your  silken  spaniels 

Shut  out  in  the  snow  and  the  sleet? 


440  HOMELESS. 

My  dogs  sleep  warm  in  their  baskets, 
Safe  from  the  darkness  and  snow ; 

All  the  beasts  in  our  Christian  England, 
Find  pity  wherever  they  go — 

(Those  are  only  the  homeless  children 
Who  are  wandering  to  and  fro). 

Look  out  in  the  gusty  darkness, — 
I  have  seen  it  again  and  again, 

That  shadow,  that  flits  so  slowly 

Up  and  down  past  the  window-pane : — 

It  is  surely  some  criminal  lurking 
Out  there  in  the  frozen  rain  ? 


Nay,  our  criminals  are  all  sheltered, 
They  are  pitied  and  taught  and  fed : 

That  is  only  a  sister-woman 

That  has  got  neither  food  nor  bed, — 

And  the  Night  cries,  "  Sin  to  be  living," 
And  the  River  cries,  "  Sin  to  be  dead." 

Look  out  at  that  farthest  corner 

Where  the  wall  stands  blank  and  bare: 

Can  that  be  a  pack  which  a  Pedler 
Has  left  and  forgotten  there  ? 

His  goods  lying  out  unsheltered 

Will  be  spoilt  by  the  damp  night  air. 

Nay  ; — goods  in  our  thrifty  England 
Are  not  left  to  lie  and  grow  rotten, 


•  HOMELESS.  441 

For  each  .nan  knows  the  market  value 
Of  silk  or  woollen  or  cotton.  .  .  . 

But  in  counting  the  riches  of  England 
I  think  our  Poor  are  forgotten. 

Our  Beasts  and  our  Thieves  and  our  Chattels 
Have  weight  for  good  or  for  ill ; 

But  the  poor  are  only  His  image, 
His  presence,  His  word,  His  will ; — 

And  so  Lazarus  lies  at  our  door-step 
And  Dives  neglects  him  still. 


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